The book Lover

After hundreds of books, thousands of plots, millions of emotions and one unforgettable lifetime spent with him; she wrote, with trembling fingers, the only words she could write to him, “I am the beginning, you are the end and we form the perfect middle. I love you."

Lunch Date

He opened the lunch box she had so painstakingly packed for him. He knew it wouldn't have finger-licking dishes inside. She had just started learning how to cook. Hunting for online recipes for beginners had become her new hobby. He appreciated the effort and he knew he would take back an empty box to show his acknowledgment.

In the final container, he found a note saying:

"I burnt the special dish that was supposed to go into this container and there was no time to start again. Thought I'd pack you some extra love instead.

p.s: I am Calvin and you are my Hobbes."

Turn My Days into Letters

Dear you,

Ours was not how most love stories start. Not with cuckoos singing and the spring breeze blowing fragrant petals on our faces or to be more realistic, not with stolen glances, secret smiles and covert phone calls in the middle of the night; instead, in a gloomy depressing place.

You had found the broken me -the scrap that time had made me into, way beyond the state of recycling. You took me in like a collector takes in, with cautious excitement a priceless antique piece. You dusted, mended and brought back my shine. You made me yours and worth much more than I ever thought I was.

I thought to thank you I would write you a love story.

(Since this world is clearly can no longer sustain a real one)

I wrote something grand and beautiful;

Something that the heart aches for and yet knows to be unreal.

With a lovelorn hero and his beloved,

With all the odds against them.

But all the odds are fought and all the demons slain.

And they make theirs a happily ever after.

You read, appreciated but insisted that we live it instead. So began our ‘Once upon a time…’.

Next, I thought I’d write you a love letter.

(Since the spoken word doesn’t always come out the 'write' way)

I wrote something out of the deepest corners of my heart.

It read beautifully and brought tears in my own eyes.

With poignant poetic words and noble intention promised,

The scented letter lay by your side as you slept.

You read, appreciated and carried on with your day. Disappointed and gloomy eyed, I went on with my day. It is only before I almost found myself asleep at night that I realised that you don’t write me letters you just simply make each day a new love letter for me.

Sincerely,

Living our story,

Me

Fight barriers (haiku)

Today all can happen
I live to see the snow melt you
I could not.

Thank you Thursday Poets Rally for the Perfect Poem Award.

I nominate Life between the lines for the next award.

How a smile works

You know I stare at you.
Today I want to stare at you while you are doing your thing,
smiling your charming little smile.
I want to experience the entire process-
Of your facial muscles flexing,
your glorious 'fair' skin stretching
and tightening around your cheeks;
(Is there a slight hint of a dimple?)
Nostrils flaring momentarily,
and your eyes, as they squint,
with those mesmerizing eye-lashes
gather around them the wrinkles,
Cheeks brighten as they rise
lips playfully rise and
the bright sparklies failing to hide the shyness
you'd want me not to see.
I want to see all of this
and then
...
 I want to kiss the living day lights out of you.

You've got mail

Prologue

2030, aug 24th, 6:35 pm : I found this letter while cleaning my desk. The handwriting seemed very familiar. It is only after reading one whole page that I realised that it was mine.

Chapter

Eyes set on your closed eyes with those perfect eye-lashes which make my heart skip a beat every now and then, what I heard you say last night:

I told you that I am not the perfect man that you think I am. I told you that I can be a screwed up, clueless, selfish prick hidden behind a shimmering porcelain mask. You laughed your generous laugh and told me that I was absolutely mistaken; that I didn’t have it in me to hurt a single soul and even if I did hurt you, I'd hurt myself more in the process.

You’ve got to understand that the nice, carefree boy-next-door that you know isn’t the real (or atleast the entire) me. Instead I'm a complete wreck, an unappetizing mess oozing out insecurities and wracking addictions off multiple sores, which running down my legs are creating a filthy puddle near my feet.

And hey, you’re not helping me when you’re looking straight at me with those big eyes, and the goofy grin of yours and calling me awesome. Perfect. Gorgeous. Hot. There is nothing that I want to do more than to pull off these so-called perfect layers of skin and fancy clothes and show you the toxic beast that lies waiting underneath. I want to show you the scars that are skin deep, marking me as an outcast for life, making memories unforgettable. I want to show you the scars that were supposed to be but I escaped. I want to show you the cold block of ice that is where my heart should be. I want you to lay your ear on my chest so that you can hear the absence of anything that comes from within, the silence where there should be pulse.I want you to lay your ear on my chest and hear the sudden eruption of heart beats that you cause by your touch.

I want you to, finally, come to terms with the fact that I was broken a long time ago and that there isn’t anything that you can do to change or fix me. I just want you to meet the real me. Only then can I trust mysel with you.

Did I really hear it or was I dreaming, like always?

Epilogue

Eyes set on your closed eyes with those perfect eye-lashes which make my heart skip a beat every now and then, what I whispered into your ears last night:

I will dance with you with yellow soles in fancy shoes in vacant lots under broken streetlamps, immersing my sickening soul in the music of our beating hearts. I will sing along with the radio, even if I sing horribly off-key. I will read out my favourite poems even if I mess up the lines. I will bear with your anger and moods and maybe sometimes argue with you and harsh words will slip out, but I promise to make it up to you with sincere apologies and sweetest of kisses. I will hide in your arms and cry out my sorrow, drenching your shirt with my tears.

Did you say you are broken? Or did you just sigh? It doesn't matter for I will love you best even if it's with my broken heart and my crushed hopes.

Happily ever after

Like any other muse she was a mystery.
Like any other beloved she was pedestaled.
Like any other masterpiece she was written in an unknown foreign language.

Like any other creator he was bemused.
Like any other beholder he was glued.
Like any other reader he was lost and content.

This is their eternal story.

Till the end of time?

Polithinks: Thinking of all the people I've waved goodbyes to, all the heartbreaks, of all those sweet 'forevers' turned into 'once upon a stupid time', I realized that there is no such thing as 'ex(s)' or 'current(s)', there is only the love that will persist and the ones which will not.

Summer Poetry (Guest post)

Finally she found that one fault that would lead to her final redemption. The exaltation in her cry ran deep, as did the moan that finally died within the dark pit in her body. The sense of geography was lost as the dislocation settled. She would finally leave his poetry, poetry that was for her, about her, was her- for she was 'Kobita'.As she found that one fault in him, she knew- so did he- that she was beyond his realm, and for forever.

This is a guest post written, graciously(under short notice and amidst exams), by one of my favourite bloggers, dearest beloveds and spunkiest punks Miss Pepper-Polo aka Paulami. Thank you. 

mea máxima culpa

It rained today. A lot. I sat in my room and got to thinking about the things I've done and the things I plan to do in the years ahead. Suddenly my thoughts were clouded by a memory, which now seems very distant, almost as if it never happened.

I killed Nadia Joseph. Calling the authorities will be pointless. They won't find anything. I've spent years thinking over every detail.

I can still see it vividly-  breathing her last few, painful, breaths. Her eyes look so un-Nadia- like. Cold, dim, fixed on a distant vision of the forgotten past-on a regret.

We were seven when we first met- Nadia and I. I knew then that one day she would die and that it would be me who would kill her. Her family had moved in into the next apartment. I was on the swing trying to touch the leaves of the low branch hanging over the swing with my feet.  Nadia, wearing a yellow bib dress and flip flops runs down with her locks flowing like a cape behind her. Without a word, she grabs my arm, pulls me off the swing, sits on the swing and swings higher and higher in a mysterious bliss, which I was not a part of. I stared at her, dumbfounded. She tossed back her hair, flashed the first of many gorgeous smiles I’d learn to loathe, and went higher with her toes stretched to touch the wet leaves I had set my eyes on.

I began to plot her death.  I thought it noble and poetic to use my own bare hands, the very ones she grabbed that day and fixed the venue in the park by the swing. It was months later when I actually made an attempt. It was late evening and we were playing in the park. She was excitedly talking about the presents she got for her birthday last night. I could not bear the ring in her voice, the aura around her and that wretched incredible smile. 

Without much conscious efforts, I pushed her hard from the back. She fell, face down. I ran quickly and smothered her face harder into the soil. Her socked feet  flailing, and hands trying to grab on to something- maybe to life- encouraged me. A few moments passed, she went limp. I turned her around. She lay there with her dress muddy and her face smeared with dirt.  I cleaned her face. It was beautiful. Ran my fingers over her brows and kissed her forehead.

I could have sworn she smiled.

Value added Services

Dear The One,

I haven't met you yet; or maybe I have and  am unaware. This is to let you know that you are being thought of very fondly this moment.

Sincerely, Me

Image credit: Aby Abraham

p.s: shared with Monkey Man as a Sunday 160.
Like to text? Say what you want to in 160 characters, including spaces.
If you're brave enough give it a go - it's not as easy as it looks!

To my dearest birthday girl

We walked through the springs and purple summers,
Playing ring-a-ring-a-roses with many hands.
But found each other at sudden moments of shared aloneness.

We were here, there, everywhere.
Breakfast,lunch and dinner...spices and desserts.
Through Kundru(s)and pav bhajis, subways and hics!

Knocks on the early morning sleepy doors.
Walks replaced by other dear ones.
Closing up chapters of lives as allies in crimes.

Closing years are still to arrive!
The fun-ning dance and the eff-ing yum guy.
You and I, a repeat, only you and I.

*--*

p.s: 1) you know I am not a poet.

2) Tried. sorry for the lameness. I don't do 'happy' too well.

3) Happy birthday, my dear girl. <3

Apology

Any relationship-quack would tell you that the main problem in the modern relationships is that  people are concerned more about what they get out of the relationship than caring about the other person’s need. So this note is a confession stating all the things I, should have, but didn't do.

• I am sorry I was(however occasional) the band-aid on your wounds and never the gyrating Zandu Balm for your pain.
• I am sorry I refused to be badnaam for you. Although I tried to be a an item, bomb and even an atom bomb, once in a while, I sincerely believe Munni does it much better.
• I am sorry that I could not pull off the pious-Sita-meets-the-seductive-Shiela act too well.
• I am sorry that I could never enter your heart through your stomach. The cooking lessons came a bit too late and getting a Subway made wasn't your idea of cooking.
  
• I am sorry I was not much of a Juliet and decided to give death a pass even at the prospect of separation.
• I am sorry I could not teach you chemistry in a hot, flowing in the wind-blowing-from-god-knows-where saree like a certain teacher you so fancy. You wanted lessons in how-not-be-a-jerk and I thought it too impossible a task.
• I am sorry I couldn't get the message when you said 'tere mast mast do nain'. It only occurred to me later that you meant you couldn't take me seeing through the intentions of your heart.
• I am sorry I couldn't be a good K-serial-esque waterfall-eyed loyalist and decided not to fight the tears that wouldn't come after exhausting the nth tissue box.
• I am sorry I was I.
  

This Post has been Published as a part of

And the prize goes to...

There are times when I feel exceedingly grateful for being born in an age where communication is the way it is. The miscommunications, the non-communications, and the missed-communication have their silver linings too.

Although, at times I want to bleed words in a hope that someone/something would notice and take the pains to just take a moment and just try. The result, might most often be failure but at least the I deserved the time and the effort. And then, there are times when something inside me refuses to bare it all, refuses to be a like a goldfish trapped in a glass-bowl without any hope for an escape or even a compensatory privacy. If I can't have the right to be understood, I should at least have the freedom for absolute privacy. There can be nothing more humiliating than being a thing of display but a subject of indifference.

In the few secretive moments of wishful clairvoyance, I see myself standing farther than the sound, the light, the tough, the smell I want myself to be engulfed in right now and I am thankful for the content smile that escapes the lips wet my the dripping tears of an overnight chore.


 It is for the likes of the following that I know that this year (2010) and life in general has been kind to me:

'You know why I like you coz you are you. coz you aren't the average simple girl.coz you are complex and that speaks to me dozens than your one simple smile. I like the way of putting yourself, the  simplicity of your being. The way you have a great style and the mindlessness and random gibberish you talk and think. It is not about whether your thoughts are high or not but has get depth. I like you coz you are you. It's not that complex you know...loving you, I mean.'

p.s: 1) thanx PGB 
2) I am aware that the week-long challenge has failed, owing to some technical difficulties. I am off desserts since yesterday.12 more days to go. T_T

Favourited Vol. V (communication)

'Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other. It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. My language trembles with desire.'

Roland Barthes, "Talking," in A Lover's Discourse

 

Notes from an Incipient Misanthrope (Stage I)

Confessions

"Sometimes I wake up early and even my soul is wet"

                                                                       -Pablo Neruda

-Grief is a product of idleness and isolation- a combination that I failed often to solve/escape.

-I've been :

• a patriot but inactive citizen,
•  an affectionate but distant sibling,
• a jovial but remote friend,
•  passionate but lost love;
• dull with brightness,
• unkind to beauty,
• an egoist to laughter , 
• with power, passive.

I have been everything that I thought I would never be.

-Was It I who suffered ,suffering in style the illusion of change, the poison of hope?

I shall give in to the image I see reflected in the cruel eyes when I look at you with an innocent desire to be spared the indignity of rejection. I give in, I give up.

'too soon',  you say.

You did not live my life, living helplessly each moment snowballing into years and decades reasserting the crack between the mind and the soul - having to see the wreckage of the bliss that you knew existed within you, one speck at a time.

-Sometimes tears seem so irrelevant. The cause too perverse. The soul drips with the tears I don't care to shed anymore.


-I am a cynic, an indifferent realist, I am all that you would care to define me as, for I have failed. I have failed my definition of myself. 

Absence of a father

There were times when Aryak felt he had chosen the wrong profession. 

All the glamour attached with the service was fine and the sense of pride that this made available not only to himself but his family and his country was something that always kept his spirits up.In spite of all the physical hardship and stress, it was moments like these that sometimes bring in the ever-so-little regret that he felt for not choosing a civilian life.

This had been a family tradition of sorts. Strangely, for three generations now the only son of the family would grow up to be a proud soldier- working, defending and living for the country. There was also one more thing. 'Your grandfather, like me, could not see his only child at birth. I hope things are different for you, son', his father had said, while rejoicing at the news of his son's upcoming parenthood. The first time his grandfather had seen his son was when the child was already 3 months old, only reading about it in letters. As for his father, things had been better, although he could only come back home after 8 months of the child's birth, he could hear his voice over the telephone. He could at least hear its breath and pure unadulterated laughter if not see the eyes which would, later , speak so much.

Aryak sat , seemingly quiet, with all these and more thoughts playing chaos in his head. It could be any moment now. He would be something more,much more than what he was right now- he would be a father. Then turning to his pc he answers the incoming call from the hospital. The image he sees leaves him speechless. It had been 'different' for him, like his father had hoped. He saw his daughter on the screen like she was there with him. All the distance vanished in a matter of seconds. All the regrets lost. All the emotions over powered him. It was at that moment he knew, life would never be the same for him again. 

p.s: this is a post for the 3G life blogger contest, powered by NTT DOCOMO. Kindly vote here if you liked it.

Memory Keeper

I stare into the eyes in the ripples of water

There is someone I know talking a stroll.

Let the ripples be, let the time crawl

'Mirror mirror on the wall who is the fairest of them all?'

A thought might strike me and pass,

I let you be , I let you go , I let you move from now to past.

If I were to cherish every moment of my life. It would have become a history textbook and, quite frankly, historical compositions aren't always the most interesting reads one comes across.

What I cherish most is my forgetfulness, my laziness to capture every moment into a more concrete form, my indifference to to the fact that my life, as I see it, might one day be as gone as I would be.

Yet i also cherish the moments You remind me of,in one those moods of yours. I cherish the 'stories' almost unaware that I have once lived them myself.

i cherish you as my memory keeper and I wish it to be so till I am capable of creating them.

Relationships with 'potential'

All relationships(especially the 'serious' ones),and by that I mean all (that includes the ones with friends, family, the 'love of your life', the crushes, the hot-guy-whom-u-pass-everyday-and-go-'ooooo', pets, favourite comic book, favourite celebrity et al), have a 'rosy' peiod, when everything seems to be unearthly, blissful and something that , it might seem then , has the potential to keep one happy throughout one's life- even if this be the only thing that one has to live with/for.

This period lasts for precisely one day.

The next day, it all changes.We keep believing that everything is as blissful as, gripping, as spontaneous, as pure as it had been the very first day.But the fact is IT AIN'T.

From the very next day comes in games,politics and power play(not all the gray shades and in the the degrees might vary).It all boils down to questions and answers: [Should I do this?, Will this work? how do I?] I'd heard it being said in some movie, "the power in any relationship lies with the person who cares less." And power is something that all of us seems to be driven by.After all the whole of human history is the outcome of the shifts of power from one man to another. So coming back to the topic, steps are planned and executed to keep this 'special thing' going forever. But what one doesn't realize is that by the time one reaches this stage, the 'special thing' has already passed.That no effort, no much-thought-about-plan-of-action would ever be able to, sadly, make it what it was.The innocence, the purity, the extreme of bonding that happens has happened and passed, that the state that one craves for perennially is a state that is eternally momentary.

So the only thing to do, I've suddenly been hit by it this morning in sleep, is that one should (ideally, but we hardly live our lives keeping in tune with the 'ideal') put a stop to any such relationship while one is still  able to see the 'rosy' tinge...a stop as soon as the practicalities and the greed for more start to creep in, before the complexities start.

We might feel the loss of something that had 'potential' for something great, but truly speaking that 'potential' never would have , in most cases, turned 'kinetic', and more so might have been the source of something more painful than the pain of loss.

So here's a cheer to all the expiry dates that I'd see in the future, I'd probably sulk, and shed a tear for many, but then I'd come back to read this post and come to see (again!) the wisdom in the wise ass post that I am typing in, in such a hurry.

until later.

:D