Probably, what's more important than anything else is to believe.

A red phone rings
Echoing through the halls
That loneliness had taught to rest
The walls strain their ears
To listen to the disturbed silence
The sound vibrates
Across the rooms
Across the covered furniture
The rooms shall be used
The dust will fly up
The silver shine
There are guests to come.

Old blankets shall be tossed away
To make room for the new buys
Doors shall be oiled
Creaking shall cease
Floors shall shine
With newly acquired polish.

The curtains are drawn
The sunlight filters in
Air the rooms!
The musty odour gone.
Sparkling glass
And clinking china
New voices
Fill the rooms.

It is fun. When you reach the edge of the big circle of light and all you see is darkness, and then someone strikes a match and suddenly there are a dozen dazzling lights that click on to suddenly make the world appear much bigger. It's such a high to know that there are more jam flavours you haven't tried, and you actually like. When you think you have so much to be grateful for, and couldn't possibly be given more, and then there's more piled onto your share. Maybe it's called being young. I dunno. I'm just glad :) :)

Vicious Serpent

Coiling, it slithers free
Slowly, it flicks the tail.
The serpent's sly
Menacing eyes
Turning, moving
Round and round.
The day's dark
The air still
Something hangs
It's ready for the kill
Slowly, surely it turns around
Wraps itself, the victim's bound
The hiss I hear is almost pleasant
A slight breeze seems to have picked up.
The rain's arriving
The grass is fresher
The mud slippery
Under my feet.
The wind whips up
A thousand bird cries
The serpent droops it's hood
And a sudden flash
Everything goes black
And I relate the tale when I wake.

And I called you my twin.

Give me a break. No, seriously. Give yourself a break too, while you're at it. So you think that you didn't deserve it. That you are stabbed, and beaten, and wronged? Who are you deluding? Do you really think that you deserve better? That given what you want, what you 'deserve', you wouldn't turn around and do the same that you rant about now? That things would be perfect, and all lovely in this perfect world of yours. Where you shall reign, with them lapping up every word you say, and loving you for it. That they should stand naked in front of you, shivering, defenceless, at your mercy. And you think you would caress them and make them feel loved. You would take care of them. You would nourish them, fondle them, and then send them off to their respective cages while you amuse yourself with the current favourite.

You pretend to feel. You say a lot of things, in your grand tongue, a thousand metaphors and tortured imagery. You pretend. You feel nothing. You display the nothing. And your crawling insects come and peer into the nothing and marvel at the depth.

You rave and rant about how you have had a bad bargain. How you have always loved more than what you have got. That you have been cheated, betrayed, hurt. People don't open up enough. They don't recognise your love. Have you ever halted in this never ending string of complaints and reflected? To look for a possible reason? Why on earth would they open up to you?? Do you even realise how little trust you inspire? How dangerous they perceive you, you with your sugarcoated cooings and never-ending 'earnest' declarations? I listen to you and try to look sympathetic. I offer comfort, for I still like you. Unfortunately for me, I like you. Maybe it's because I see it. The facade. And the complete lack of realisation. It's incredulous how much you delude yourself of. You think you're any of what you expect from others? That you actually deserve to be treated like you think you should? Sometimes this short laugh escapes me when I'm listening to you. You look at me questioningly and I brush it away. I can't tell you all this. Not because I don't want to. But because you are lost to me, when you're like this. You have to decide. For yourself. All I can do is hope for sanity to someday reach you. When you would be human again. But there's a sinking sensation that tells me that you're forever lost to me.

Cocoon. It's safe, protective, a shell. Tender inside, hard outside. You are safe. You need protection. Somehow, the idea annoys me. What cocoon? What protection? Are you really that weak? Crap, I think. You need a cocoon to survive? When my mind goes blank, and thoughts are all dulled, I can't speak. I'm thinking, and its almost absent-minded in its activity. I'm grateful to be allotted work, there's something I can do, something productive. I'm approached for help, do you know which train I take? Fat finger points towards a map, questioning look in harassed eyes. I smile and nod. Then walk down an extra flight of stairs just to feel more useful. The brief moments over, I relapse into walking impatiently in front of Cafe Coffee Day. I hate waiting. Sometimes, all I can speak about is what I'm thinking right at the moment. Shove it to make space for other thoughts, maybe small talk. I can't. One-track mind, an especially difficult math sum that I have to solve. I'm still trying to understand the damn question. This is no examination, no warning bells, no time limit. Figure it out on your own, just do it correctly. It wasn't meant to be this way. There are some questions that never need to arise, some problems never meant to befuddle. It wasn't meant this way, we weren't prepared for this. Especially when it's the last thing that could've ever happened. If there's anything worse than trying to convince others of something you believe in passionately is trying to convince people of something that you completely don't believe in.

Rickshaws are comfortable vehicles. The streets in Chandni Chowk are narrow and our rickshaw waalla swerves expertly dodging humans and vehicles alike. This is like a joyride. Yeah, somewhat. Check out the colours!! Through my glasses they are warmer, rose-tinted, she said. I take them back and put them on again. Forced laughs, pretense. I know nothing. I know something. Do I really know anything? Clearing the table mechanically, some lines of my favourite Bengali song play on tv. I start humming it, I want to. Broken tune, the singer on tv is a man. I look down at my hands, the table is already cleared.

Drifting, like smoke. Constrictions in my throat, absent mindedly pick up a smiley that I once gave to dada. It's frozen smile grins back at me, and I squish it. Contorted smile. As soon as I release my thumb, it resumes it's grin. There's much to plan for the next day, a lot to decide. It's her birthday and we have to come up with presents. Dial, call, decide. Simple. Put the receiver quietly back, someone's called out to you. No pudding? Why not? The same way he looked when I didn't want mishti doi that day. And wanted it when it was over. The day has a lot left, finish them, you haven't earned your rest yet. Stay up till midnight, you have to wish her. Extra chirpy voice, birthday laugh. Special order. Insistent voice brings me back to reality. What's the plan for tomorrow? Remember. Remember. Some more nodding, back to mechanical catering of other people's needs. Sometimes, you just have to... go back.

Just this and that

Sometimes everything makes so much sense. When your head is completely clear and you just amusedly review what you had been thinking important. You brush all of it aside thinking how silly you’ve been. Nothing really matters except that one important thing. And that’s all there is to it. It’s you. Funny how advice comes back to you, when you need it the most. Amusing how it catches you by surprise. Crazy how you never thought of it. Relieving that you gave it to someone else. Who threw it back to you. Sometimes life is too cool. Dum dee dee dum.

It’s funny how people remember promises made in ’92 and ask you fifteen years later if you remember. It’s slightly sad how something uttered by a person off hand, can be treasured for so long and held precious. It’s strange how a silly memory can make someone’s day and make them want to live differently. It’s surprising how things that seem to be lost forever seem to come back to life in an afternoon’s time. It’s pissing off to know that what you may have held on to for years may just be nothing at all. And the fact that you don’t care make you wonder who you actually are. Fascinating how things fall into place in a very different way than you ever thought they would. Pleasant how they seem just perfect the way they are. Bizarre how you catch the scent you liked in the most unlikely place ever and how glad you are that you found it. Weird how you look forward to things you also dread. Disappointment that you don’t fall down when you expected you would. As much as you dreaded that scratch, it would’ve been a pretty cool thing to say to yourself that you could fall and still laugh. Because it really didn’t hurt too much and you’re super man. Comforting how seemingly arbitrary things bring to you as much happiness as you could’ve ever hoped for. How different things make a complete day. How every one of them was important to make the day complete. How you can’t solve everything and there’s lots more to learn than you possibly could have. How breezes seem to be timed perfectly and cars honk to rudely interrupt your thoughts. How control isn’t really an issue at times. And how things make you smile in the stupidest way possible. Especially when the sources are from the most unlikely quarters possible :)

Anduu

"No no no NO! I shall call... I feel sad that you feel sad... I hate you for that... Idiot girl... "

I always get more than I deserve.

S-h-am

There you stand at the edge of the pool. You know you want to jump in, learn how to stay alive there. You know you would enjoy it, want it, need it. But you don’t know how to swim. And there’s an arm in there to hold you if you should drown, but you’re scared. He knows how to swim, and he knows how to take care of you. But you wouldn’t let him. You’re afraid that he may let go, leaving you to flounder. You think you can’t take it. You think you’d drown, or at least swallow a lot of water. Who ever learnt to swim with rubber tubes? You don’t want to learn you say. Liar, I say.

Humming

Right now I see monuments
Drawn with a shaky hand

Gets sharper as it progresses
Careless whispers strengthened it

The flowers have bloomed
The marsh helped them along
The weak birds now fly
A gentle breeze promised them support

I dreamt of a song
The melody suited my words
I wrote new meanings
Into the pretty tune

The hand that shook is resting now
Against a stone that warms the fingertips
In the cold winter frost
A promising balm

The air that was smoky
Is clearer now
Someone whispered to me that I could breathe
And I'm breathing now

The monuments would just vanish
If the charcoal was invisible
The flowers wither
In the flimsy soil
The birds drop down
If the breeze fails

The words meant stars
When I meant the moon
The words nothing
Without the reading

The hand slips
There was moss on the stone
And I left the gloves
The fingers turn numb.

Would I choke in the air
That I breathe now?

Clutter

He looked around, blinking at the sudden bright. He squinted at the wall and tried to register his surroundings. Today was to be yellow. Sunshine, egg yolk, sundress, paint, smiley stress buster. Today the towel would be yellow, the clothes bright, everyone upbeat. He trudged silently to the bathroom, as everyone yelled out greetings. He raised a tired hand in a half wave, and closed the door softly. As the exceptionally clear water ran through his hair, he imagined the day. A yellow day. Probably ice cream and volleyball.

As he came out, in his yellow clothes, smelling of sunshine and freshly cut grass, he paused to look into the mirror. Everything was dazzling, almost blinding. It hurt his eyes, this sunshine. He walked the usual path, and strangers flashed smiles like old friends. Familiar faces called out and asked him friendly questions. He forced smiles, the way that was right, the way the day demanded. He had no reason to be otherwise, except it was difficult. He wondered why, off-hand, but didn't dwell on it for long. He walked on, towards the sun, the one thing he was sure he didn't want. But the day was yellow.

He ate pumpkins, like everyone else. He saw the same things that a yellow day offered. They were playing with water, all laughing and giggling. They squirted some on him, and he splashed some on them back. It wasn't really that hard. It wasn't as forced as it had been. He actually was having fun. It gave him a high, to be able to be happy. He wanted to be, and he was.

He walked on, as a sudden wind picked up. The day was turning blue. The dust rose with the wind and the blue smell of the air surrounded him. The leaves blew towards him, and a stray plastic bag swirled round and round in the same spot. Doors were hastily shut, and clothes left to dry removed. There was a dull thud somewhere in the background. He walked on, the path now deserted, the smiles gone. He missed yellow.

Fataach.

That’s it. I hate elastics. They keep stretching and the more they stretch the more you want to stretch it, just to see how much more they would elongate. And without warning they snap. They are horrible sly things that keep egging you to stretch them as much as you want to, lulling you into a false sense of security, reassuring and setting all your apprehensions to rest, falsely promising to yield, and suddenly snap! Without warning, just like that. And they usually pinch your skin, as if the shock wasn’t enough. Horrible things, elastics.

Horrible nursery rhyme.

The faded colours are vibrant. The orange is deeper, the blue clearer, the green richer. The flowers look fresher, the smiles are warmer, the happiness greater. Everything tastes better and everything goes your way. Surprises are pleasant and you're giddy with joy that seems to gravitate towards you, towards others around you, and even in this sweltering heat you skip around and do everything right. People laugh around you and react just the way you've always dreamt they will. You're moon's child and you can do no wrong, and you can see no wrong. And then everything goes poof.

And you're yet again saved from something horrid. You were prancing around without a care in the world when you suddenly stop and see your toe nudging air and you shudder at the thought of one step more. You recede back, safe, but just about. You're visibly shaken, you don't know if it was your fault, you don't exactly know what went wrong. And twice in short succession just kills all joy. And you are back to being wary, AGAIN. Suddenly everything now has a sinister undercurrent. Like the blasted nursery rhymes. Aarrgh.

It is there it is there it IS there !!!!!!!!!!

This isn't fair. There's a Yeti in the virtually empty apartment I've been allotted a room in and no one seems to believe me. I never thought that it would meet with such stifled (and not so stifled) laughter. I mean, I never talked about it because I like the Yeti and wasn't complaining. Plus I didn't want to brag about it because I like the apartment not to resemble a zoo. But it suddenly slipped out when I was conversing with this monkey. And what does he do ?? LAUGH !!!!!

Anyway, this got me thinking. Would you not believe me either ?? Because the Yeti does exist. I'm not overtly imaginative or dramatic or fanciful. I know it exists. It used to stay at the GK waalla place but when Dadamoni shifted base to Mehrauli, it decided to follow me to flat no. 56. I didn't snap at it like the others. Plus I actually had the decency to be grateful for all that it has done for me all this while. It has the most gentle arm ever and the fuzziest lap. Even though it's invisible, I'm sure it must've a very gentle face and the prettiest eyes. It stands guard as I sleep and makes sure that Shaak Chunni stays away. Shaak Chunni always thought that it could get me whenever it wanted. Constantly tried to plague me. There was a time when I couldn't bear hearing it's name out loud. Now I can even type it, even though a shiver runs through me as I type the letters. Thank moon for the Yeti. And the non believers can go eat horse shit. Grr.

There. I didn't explode. I just decided I didn't care :)

Mmm.

When I was very young thakurma used to make me stand erect next to the dining table and under her severe appraisal and with the help of the dining table’s height, she would inform me how taller I had grown. Then she would pull me onto her lap and tell me sadly that I needed to fatten up. These scrawny arms! She would exclaim. I never grew fatter.

Today when I stand next to the dining table as my steadily withering thakurma slowly eats her food; it comes to me suddenly how thin she has grown. She is now a skeleton of her formal portly self. She squints at me with her hands shading her eyes when I speak to her. She still laments how thin I am.

Once, when I was six years old, thakurma had an operation. She had to go and stay there for a week. When I used to come back from school, she would always be there. Now I was supposed to go to a nearby jethi’s place after school and stay with her until one of my parents would come back and fetch me. Jethi cooked happy food. She would mix rice, butter, salt and potato fries and arrange them in balls around my plate like a small army. Then, because I was a finicky eater, she would make me name all of them and eat them one by one. I couldn’t miss any because it meant I didn’t love the person I had named it after.

The first day I came to Jethi’s place, she asked me to go wash up while she arranged the table. I obediently went to the basin, washed, and sat down. My arm had barely stretched towards my plate when she pounced on me. What dirty knuckles! She cried in dismay. She marched towards the basin while I guiltily followed. That day my knuckles were washed so vigorously that I’m sure they were raw red. But Jethi laughs when I claim that. From that day, till the end of the week, my knuckles were subjected to the same torture until they started resembling almost princess-like proportions. The day before thakurma was supposed to come back, Jethi made chicken for me too. I ate the usual nevertheless. I was stupid. She always claimed that I was the daughter she never had. I secretly stroke my knuckles and try to look as earnest as I can.

She came to visit a few days ago. I smiled at her and asked her whether my knuckles were clean enough or not. She laughingly told me that I had become a ‘young woman’. That now she didn’t have to worry about me because I knew how to discipline myself. I don’t really want to. And my knuckles still look the same.

Just when I decide that an orange is an orange, it turns out to be an apple. And I heave a sigh of relief that I didn’t bite it. And be disappointed. Which reaffirms the notion that I cannot discern an apple from an orange. And then I’m off fruits for a few more centuries. How much longer do I go starved? Should I just bite and then decide what fruit it is? And throw it in the waste paper basket if I don’t like it? I can’t. Do I make myself eat the entire fruit until the juice is wrung dry, the juice that I didn’t like anyway? And then throw the wasted core away? Or do I make myself like the fruit? Why?

There was a time when fruits were easy. All sucked. All tasted bad, and it was just a mere avowal not to eat fruits, and drink juice instead. Drinking juice was always easier, because they came in pre-packaged containers that had a straw for easy drinking. And then I could crush the tetra-pack into a ball and carefully aim it to the nearest dustbin. Easy. But I’m sick of drinking them now. I want to chew my own and hum cheerfully as I taste my favourite fruit. But I can’t choose them correctly. And all I can do is write about fruits. Exactly the kind I want, and it happily comes to me. Bright orange, with liberal amounts of sweet and tangy alternate tastes. One that I can peel and chew and gulp them down, occasionally spitting out seeds, which keeps me alert. And I can sit in the sun and wait for it to rain, so that the orange tastes even better. The orange may finish, but it would still leave me better satisfied and happier than before I ate the orange. But I don’t know where the orange tree is. I mistook the apple one for it. I cradled it in my arms and brought it home. It was dark red and shiny. It invited attention. It was an apple. It was an apple.

Why we didn't want to be pregnant

Nakshak : Yeah you don't lose that fat later too... :S
Nishtha : Yeah and then you get those horrible things !!!!!!
Nakshak and me : What ? Stretch marks ??????
Nishtha : Kids !!!!!!!!


And we died laughing. Oh MAN.

.

I'm angry, and I'm disappointed. I'm sure nobody cares, and that's the way it should be. So to no one in particular, I shall not blog.

Of sunshine and laughter

Of sunshine and laughter, and beautiful lies,
You with your hidden fears and magnificent eyes
Crouching in the dark, driven there
Nobody’s watching, nothing to fear
You can cry alone, your salty tears.

Secret hopes and lovely dreams
Crushed inside you, you despair.
Rainy days and coffee all night
Speeding cars and brand new bikes
Laughter shared; your own giddy highs.

Driving fast in an uphill road
A vertical path as the engine sputters
Driving on, far away
Till all you hear is the wind
Whistle around you, ever moving fear.

Of sunshine and laughter, and newer lies,
Stuffed inside you, the basest of highs
You push it down, hoping for it to go
Away like it did, in that ride long ago
That ride long ago.

Impatient tapping.

There are times when everything suddenly seems to shush. When everything around you seems to slow down, when voices become an incoherent dull thud in the background. It’s the same way when a tape gets stuck in the recorder and the singer’s voice becomes distorted in to a meaningless stretched jumble. And you can’t yank out the tape because it would damage it. And you can’t bring the slowed down world around you back to its original pace. There’s a scream that seems to pierce through the sudden lull but nothing changes. The scream’s silent. It’s in you, and you know you are screaming on and on, your throat aches but no one seems to hear it. The background din seems to go on, unconcerned. While you scream.

There are times when you feel that you are teetering over an edge. Not just one edge, with one fall, one danger. When you’re on the brink of something big and you just don’t know what it is. And you probably have an inkling of it, but it’s too frightening to acknowledge. Sometimes you think about it and can’t decide what it is. It seems to elude you, leaving only a sense of deep dissatisfaction and unease behind. Sometimes you forget it, when you’re laughing at a joke, or listening to something. Sometimes, in sudden moments, it comes back to you. And every time, it hits hard. Sometimes you stagger, sometimes you feel angrily frustrated. But it ever seems to loom, just out of reach, just a few paces away. In your restless mind, it almost assumes the sure solemnity of a cataclysm.

You can’t decide, you want to, so bad. Kicking things doesn’t help, frustration mounts. While you scream.