Tuesday, April 26, 2016

The Threshold

She tries to picture him. He has probably made a check-list of important things he must take back home. The list is long, each thing a tiny puff of anxiety at the base of his throat. 

His shoulders are graceful, like a bird's. They are abrupt though and one can't quite match it with his neck. It's thicker but his voice is soft. It's mellow. Aloof. There are many questions waiting to burst out at the tip of her tongue. But she reins them in. They'd make her sound like she cared. 

A stray remark of when the flight is, is made. Evening, the tight lipped answer comes. He had mentioned it was in the morning, she had written it down. Another stray remark had to be made., "Oh? I thought it was in the morning." This conversation was taking place at 3:29 a.m, his time. 

She wouldn't put a label of "nocturnal" on his innocent forehead. He couldn't sleep at nights. There were nightmares, she knew. But he never talked about them. She'd picture him clawing at his pillows and waking up longing for a drop of water. Right then in her head, a threshold had been crossed. 

"You are awesome" he had written with three busy yellow mouths spewing out garish red hearts when she had described what she'd like to do to him after he stepped out of the shower. He would never cross that threshold, she had realised. 

He falls asleep mid sentence. She wonders what tires him out so much. 

She waves at him from the other side of the threshold, he waves back, not quiet able to make sense of why there are tears patiently melting her face away. 


Saturday, April 23, 2016

Deliver Me...



"But I'm not giving up 
I'm just giving in." 

~Florence + The Machine 


For times, when the head won't let you sleep, won't let you breathe without knowing it's wasted. 

All your breaths are wasted. 

Here's to those times- that make you strong and all you've got to show for it is your pillow soaked and stained from rivers that run deep inside your eyes.

 You wouldn't know about them till they stray from their paths.... from the chartered river bed.

 They are tired. 

And you nod because you understand. 

Three Rivers Deep (book series) "A two-souled girl begins a journey of self discovery..." http://threeriversdeep.wordpress.com/:

Tuesday, April 19, 2016

Because I Am Feeling Indulgent

It is surprising how you have learnt so well
Those buttons that make me quiver like a leaf through my own moral hell.
You hold me, grip me with your words
In a trance I give in to the needs that flutter inside me like hungry birds.

For the next one hour, I let you take me through
The reds, the oranges and bursts of dainty blues,
I look at you, and there's not an inch 
That into my being, the brain won't permanently singe 

In the cavernous depths of our cries 
You're here, you're here, who would dare deny? 
The mind races to imagine what it would be 
If I really felt your skin, your face against me. 

My mind is a afloat and scattered
People are talking at me and  nothing else could ever have mattered.
There's you, there's me, there's us and the losing of all sensibility
Why must you know what to say, how to shred away the last remnants of stability?

I listen for you patiently, I want more.
More than is my fair share of the way you adore. 
You have probably drifted off to sleep
And  left me to  laugh at my stupidity and weep. 

Source: etsy.com
P.S so some of you sweet readers have DMed me saying "Damn girl, you write about sexy times now?" And to them I have replied, "why couldn't this be a conversation between the sky and the sun and their sexy times?" They have asked back, " well it talks about an hour, that's why?" and yes, it does, but isn't a day like an hour for the sky? I thought the picture at the end of this and the "reds, the oranges and the bursts of dainty blues" would give away what I was trying to do...but clearly I suck at this :P So anyway, I thought I'd write something here just for the record.

Monday, April 18, 2016

This Isn't A Travelogue Or An Ode To April - Maybe Something in Between?

“Welcome to the Heat and Dust” said everyone.  It’s been 9 long holiday days. 9 days of viewing pleasure, where the cold and the kindness and the good food came to us in drifts. It’s very much like these people with their hands tucked inside their pherans- if you let your vision blur a little it’s like watching a drift of people floating around limbless in their colourful cloak-like pherans- it’s a disturbing, beautiful picture that will stay with me when I close my eyes and try to stave off nightmares. They’ll protect me- these people with their kind brown eyes and rugged sharp features. I have never seen more beautiful faces.

In Kolkata we are greeted by a flood of boiling anger. A fight erupts on our way out from the airport. People are shoving fistfuls of hot words down each other’s neck. They transform into sticky sweat rolling down our spines, stifling our movements, languor is omnipotent– 8 degrees to 45 degrees- Geography is a funny thing.

We met gypsies- moving from one roughly constructed hut to another. Their horses are decorated from head to rump with color. They have huge dogs protecting their sheep. The sheep are marked red on the forehead- a weird mark of betrothal to a commune? Their entourage is of considerable length.A tiny puppy peeps out of a satchel that one of the women carry carelessly.  Watching them go by, we are tempted to walk with them. Forget everything and just move forward and onwards, attachments be damned. A simple smile adorns their weather beaten faces- they laugh at civilization and I want to laugh with them too.




I wake up from a dread of deadlines and a nudge from the phone vibrating from the weight of innumerable unanswered mails reminding me of responsibilities that have been so blissfully ignored. How am I even getting these notifications, my sleepy head wonders, I haven’t switched on mobile data yet. I peer at the phantom phone and ah..wifi. Right. Wifi. Damn you.  There’s so much to do that the only way to go about it is to pretend nothing of vital significance will be started till much later…and then you creep into the mess with baby steps-the dirty comb is cleaned, the unwashed hair is washed, the plants are watered-  and maybe a few hours later, home is home again.

My blog tells me that April has been a blank month. Nothing for you sweet April – Gretchen Wieners be put to shame.  But April is humble that way because April knows she’s been a really important month for me. She knows how much I’ve changed through the shedding of her tears- one tear for each day passed- till she must pass and remember to resurface same time, next year, with her basket of memories that I will buy and wear like battle scars that have already been paid for.