searching...

What makes us who we are?
 

I am a compost bin. The waste of years is rotting inside me and I have the hope of emerging a new man. A better man. It will take time, and many more new people, conversations and relationships will get thrown in, even as the old ones ferment. I have learnt to live with the stench. It has become a part of me. When they ask me who I am,I tell them, a dull fragrance of changing sameness. They don’t understand. I am them, I tell them. Unknowingly they are shaping me. As if I were a mound of prostitute clay free to be moulded by one and all. I have been twisted and turned to fit varying designs of expectations, and every cast has found me wanting.

I know now I shall always be inadequate for the ‘I’ is ever shifting.They tell me about essences. That’s what we are. Some unchangeable core that withstands time’s machinations. That is what I must get in touch with if I am truly searching for my identity. Excavation is the philosopher’s realm, and they tell me that I must dig deep for the answers I seek. But what if I am here merely to posit questions without the burden of having to look for answers?What if it is the questioning that is the most important, what if I have given up on answers which are at best rudimentary and consolatory? They say then I haven’t probed enough, and that I am afraid. I tell them, as politely as I can, for rage seethes within at their incomprehension, about my need for questions.They brush it aside saying peace will come with answers. Questions are bilious. And with that they erase my existence, for to me what else am I but a bundled series of questions?

I don’t need to be disentangled with your explication nor forced into a state of false supplication as you try to measure me out against compartmentalized tropes that we are taught to aspire to. I rebel against the singularity of being you ascribe to me. I am burning the map you gave me to chart out my life’s course. They smile, a frustratingly long while, before they speak. There is yet an orthodoxy to rebellion, and in burning one map you have merely decided to subscribe to another. Every course of action, every line of thought is always already taken, they tell me. Who am I? That will always be a cumulative disguised as individual.

And as everything decays inside me, I walk in an odorless silence, towards boundaries that need crossing. I will follow my questions into oblivion and become part of some other compost bin.

starry loves

Love was a feisty longing. I allowed her the nightly flight and she came back exhausted having danced with the stars on moonbeams. All day she slept in the cozy little corner I had made for her. By evenings when I used to come back seeking solitude’s solace and her company, she handed me an old memory and ran off for her own rendezvous. I sat with the little piece of jigsaw, trying to fit it in its appropriate time, place and person. Shadows graced me from the skies and I saw her skipping to melodies of her making.

Every night her little love story ended with a star that hurtled down with her. She wanted me to wish on her follower, and I wondered if someone had wished on me all those years ago, when I had blindly followed her to this little cave. I sat with her disciple once, at a time that was somewhere between night and day, dawn was threatening to break loose. Soon reality would turn him to dust that would float its way to the sun. But we got a chance to sit together even as our tired love threw us a few kisses and drifted off. I say “our” love, but it didn’t pinch anymore. I could see it bothered him. A spot of bother that wasn’t going to last I knew. For these little worries had not a life of their own. They dissipated with us. We had I think half an hour to ourselves. We didn’t talk of how we felt, or about that shared love. What could we have said. We looked out in silence, each in his own thought. And longing. I wished on you, I had told him. He could have pretended incomprehension. Our worlds were different after all. But he had nodded and said rather nonchalantly, “That’s what she wanted.” And the first ray of dawn had taken away all possibility of further conversation.

How did she have this kind of power, over mortals and immortals, across worlds, or perhaps even universes, to make them follow without thought, unheeding of one’s own life, longevity, consumed entirely by the longing that she was? It was easy to understand it when I looked at her sleeping. I could feel my skin burning. What dreams must she be dreaming? I had wondered through wasteful days. I used to feel no pangs of separation when she went out. I kept myself busy with the jigsaw, memory upon memory, refusing to fit in, overlapping, mocking spatio-temporal boundaries and expectations.

One night I decided to string up the bundle and hang it on the balcony. They shone with the star light that bounced off them. She had come back that night and got all tangled up in it. Suddenly the jigsaw fit and I saw the picture complete, after years. She looked at me, for the first time, in a strange helplessness. What did you wish for? she had almost cried. I undid the strings, let the memories fall and break down in an impenetrable heap. I half expected her to fly off to the moon, but she walked in quietly and wrapped herself in her blanket.

I stared at her in her slumber the whole day. She slept through the evening and finally got up around midnight. She stood watching me collect the last scraps of the night before. I asked her how she was feeling, and some more utterly meaningless questions that she barely responded to. The fire in her eyes had given way to deep dark circles under them. I wonder if I realized then that I had lost her. In hindsight, I should have. She chose to stay that night. And many nights after that. We chose silence to keep the longing alive. I didn’t know what she was waiting for. I waited in utter terror of the day she would leave. I refused to sleep. I played music for her hoping she would dance with me. She stared at the record with blank eyes that had deeper and darker circles under. We seemed destined to continue down that road. Fiery passions tend to end tamely, fizzle out in stereotypical ways. All I had to do was wait. Love was going to be a longing. A long unending longing. Raging on in embers. And I was preparing myself for it. After all there were no more stars to be wished upon.

bluish love

this tired blue love

in a dusty stinking corner

lies orphaned,abandoned.

if it had eyes to see

it would our desertion

if it had ears to hear

it would our silence

if it had a nose to sense

it would our putrefaction

if it had a mouth to taste

it would our bitterness.

perhaps it was good after all

there was no face

to go with the name.

too much shame

is sometimes

left off

without a word

on moonless nights

in dusty stinking corners.

falling/ fallen

something's missing

or someone

one can't be sure.

its a gaping manhole

and somebody's run off

with the lid

and i keep falling

into the grime and muck

at the heart of things

getting used

to not chasing meaning

(lofty purposes can go climb a tree.)

i need to find a way

to get out of this hole

or not.

in which case

any suggestions

to make it comfortable

are welcome.

'anybody there?'
anybody there?

echoes back.

conversations

Talk to me.

Keep talking to me.

You are not the comfort of candid conversation. Nor the reservoir of shared soothing nonsense. 

Why do I need you then?

Perhaps because You and I, We, have always belonged together. In our serious silences. In reaching out. Never. Always. In reaching in. Always. Never. We hide our little secrets and live out our lies. Saying what needs to be said – of lovely winter mornings that seem to give life meaning, not the foggy nights they followed and which we stayed awake through. Alone in sunsets, we promise sunrise to all and sundry. But ourselves. Patience, love, sacrifice. We have heard those and passed them on dutifully without having to believe. We belong for we can pretend and live it out. The choices we make are hungry sad choices devoid of conviction and rigged towards the repentant. We stand across unfathomable distances and know how unbridgeable the gap is. We belong because we have always known. The language of loss makes for good silent conversations. We belong because we have had those. And only those. The world mills around happiness. There is no need to find a place there. It is sitting at home, after the party is over, surrounded by the mess of others’ making, which is but my own, that I think of you. And that is when you have been in the middle of your own little celebration. We belong because our desires are ill timed, and our needs unfulfilled in one another. You and I together are like life. Predictable and reliable only in the promise of our instability and discomfort. Fierce loyalists of infidelity, we belong together. You and I. Let us go then.

star gazing

Stifled screams come loose

in a moment of silence

and rush for the stars.

They will only feel

a rustle of leaves

an unexpected breeze

in the dead of winter.

Someday it will explode

that smoldering speck

in the night sky

And as my tears rain down

they will wonder

why the heavens

poured ashen.

a winter night's tale

A winter night's tale

of string lights

yellow sunflowers

dancing on muddy pots

whose own blossoms

died last summer.

borrowed loves

can be beautiful.

jigsaws can fit

in strange ways.

perhaps it is time

to stop insisting

on whats mine

and let you

shine on me.

lost

silent sparrows
looking for a song
withered away
in a time far gone
nibbling at pithy remains
in the shadow
of hovering vultures.

missing melody

i walk through strawberry fields

looking for my song

bloody winged disaster

the centerpiece

of this life's meaning

come to me, i whisper

to a breeze that stills

give me proof you exist

that i am not chasing shadows

i know you love the sun and the fields

but what if...

what if you are allergic to strawberries?

i think i shall go back

to my dark room

where they said

you'd never come

it's your turn

to come after me now.

and if you don't

(acting pricey as you tend to)

life will follow

lost stars and sheep.

And we can be strangers again.

flashes

The familiar scent of the dogs used to mean home.now one goes feeding strays yearning for a nostalgia.home meant more.than a faded scent.

Dancing headlights of a passing car throw light on an estranged ceiling under which the body finds rest. And the mind goes searching. Through the alleys that passing car would have crossed. Going places. The somewheres and nowheres of the world. Of worlds.

The resounding silence of meaning. Creeps into the room. Changes color. Foams up. Sooty bubbles. Crack on a tear that slides down quietly. Without acknowledgment.

Old dreams find time to revisit. Putrified now. Faces gnaw at blurry eyed recognition's door. No answer.

Yesterday's woodpecker pecks for a while before realising today's iron door has closed out tomorrow. Wrought iron. Wrought. Rot. Some things remain untouched.locked away in the routine of prosaic everyday. The relief of banality is inexplicable. The hour of surprise is past.

That and passing dreams. Fading cars. Mirrors too honest to reflect brood in the comfort of the wall. Names and ceilings gather not the contempt of familiarity. Meaning loses grip on itself. Almost willingly. Knowledge seeks out its adversary, the repository of elusive bliss. A life in frames rushes past riding on a high speed train. A hint of a forgotten memory touches and vanishes. Nothing remains to cover the tracks. A distant whistle reminds one there should.

Death is a little room. Furnished with basics - space and emptiness. Life is an ornately done up lobby. Elaborate. Aestheticized. Nauseating in its sanitised hypocrisy. the doors between them constantly swinging. The two way traffic of many somebodies. Many nobodies. In the end only bodies. Its business as usual. Life goes on. Much like death. You complete me. They whisper to each other.

moongazing

the moon has gone away.

the empty sky looks down

as if it were my fault.

its not like i hid it under my pillow

or put it in the freezer

to later watch it thaw.

we barely met today.

i have been busy you know.

i say to a blank hole of emptiness

not a twinkling spokesperson in sight.

just an overbearing presence.

don't bully me into a false confession.

maybe you scared the moon away.

have you thought about that?

Silence meets me halfway

hanging in mid air oppressively .

a yellowed street lamp

whispers in a faded light -

he burnt out.

Waned into oblivion.

an unknown cloud performed last rites.

the sky retires to look elsewhere.

as if now it could be found.

come sit with me

i tell the villain.

lets be friends. and drink to loss.

in congruity

brazen clamorous haggling

and

Amadeus’ Symphony no. 40

a collage of colorful bangles

and

the clinking of broken dreams

picture perfect framed walls

and

worn windows with broken panes

dinner for two. an obscure bistro.

and

i reserve you. for me.

confession

can you lose something

you have not yet found

that was never yours

my greatest fear

is losing myself

as if i am frozen

in that picture frame

gathering dust

on the mantelpiece

my greatest hope

is to find myself

which is

but to find in myself

a greater harmony

between

the belief and the perception.

let us leave

the lost and found

for things.

for me,

let me just discover.

fairy tale

it eats away.

at everything.

little by little.

stab by incisive stab.

bruise by burning bruise.

gash by coagulating gash.

this corrosive sadness

used to be love

once upon a time.

albatross

a legacy.of stories.

reluctant inheritance.

sitting in a pile of ash

wading in a pool of blood

tells.me this

blotting

burning

bleeding out

of stories

has been futile.

they are more alive

than ever.

engulfed in a scent

i have failed to notice.

raat ki rani on a winter's night.

dying jasmine temple discards.

a long shut up room.

an old book.a new dress.

wet earth.mould

summer breeze.

autumn haze.

but every scent.

scentlessness itself.

imbued.with you.

my stories have become

all about you.

you have disinherited me.

my beggared existence

knows not

what the greater burden is.

choosing

a chosen silence.

there are words.

to be sure.

hollow.polite.needed.

always measured.

nothing more.

amnesia.lack of practice.

for whatever reason.

conversation's winter.

sustained.unsustaining.

a perfect drought.

sooner or later.

choice becomes compulsion.

compunction.

eventual extinction.

the power to choose

a journey full of doubt

a deserving conclusion.

unsubscribed

not a disconnect.

this.

not likely to be fixed

by the cable guy.

customer service

is a monotonous tune

from neverland.

half.forgotten

all the fidgeting

violent lashes of temper

Caterwauling.

pointless.

there is no way

to resubscribe.

our channel has been discontinued.

to be sure.

there is you.

there is me.

but the 'us'

exists no more.

low trps.loss making. they said.

survival

i went and got myself

some sorrow yesterday.

i had the choice

of happiness

but

happiness is difficult.

it creates the need

for another.

to share.

sorrow - easy.simple.

it needs no one else.

it can be by its own.

multiply.subtract.

do all its math

by itself.

there is much to learn

from such self sufficiency.

man may not be an island

but it doesn't much matter

when you are drowning.

downpour

rain falls on me

like your love.

drenching me.

leaves me with

the lingering taste

of you.

suppled skin

stays intoxicated

in your fragrances.

suspended

it is the talk

of things.

worldly.

that of love

has passed

to the netherworld

of dead languages.

nobody would

know the difference.

not one would find out

the compulsions

of small talk

that hold us together.

we are prisoners

of our narrative.

freedom seems undesirable.

though necessary.

but then

this now strange notion

of 'us'

was borne of desire.

why should it be

any different now?

let us be.

as we are.

in fermented desire.

frozen in time.

fixed in story.

may the lie of together

outlive us both.

love's course

should you be happy

that you make me sad?

incredibly sad.

i see a worried wonder

in your eyes.

ah my love

you should know.

its you.there will be sadness.

it has become a part of me.

what does it say

but that

the chords of my heart

are still all tangled up

in you.

the fragrances of first love

linger on

not just in memory.

the ache of heartbreak

is keenly felt

in every conversation

and through silences.

you and i

will amount to nothing

my precious.

and thats the

most beautiful part.

for slowly

the sadness will wash away

a catharsis.

and all that will remain

left behind

but not unwanted

as if rarefied

will be love.

amorphous

it speaks to me.
this parrot green
covered book.
it tells me
of a world i know.
but foggily.
i could be this man.
on page 46.
but i am sure
the hands that made him
have never been in mine.
not even the familiarity
of a handshake.
perhaps the affinity
is incidental.accidental.
sentimental.
who knows?
by page 107
the trajectories of our lives
have diverged.
i am her now.
at the end of page 108.
but then.
its time tested.
by the time i reach
parrot green conclusions
on Page 453
i would have been
many.
many would have been me.
never to cross paths
ever again.
a new page.a new possibility.
the terrain of the book.
many possible lives for me.
the end of the book.
my choice.for my life.
for when it goes back
into dusty cramped
wooden corners
i will be me.again.

visitation

revisiting a cemetery.

to find graves.

newer,but older.

a known love.

an unknown past.

a past love. inevitable.

a love. past the inevitable.

nothing changes

and yet everything.

to be outdone

even in death.

there they lie

together.

the unholy intruder

with flowers of love

for one

must leave

with the flowers.

for autumn leaves

cover the graves

in a unison

that cannot be undone.

verdict

distilling love.

filtering out the unwanted.

villainous expectation.

let love be pure.

independent of you.

i choose for me.

a concentrated love.

so let it not be

i love you

but that i love.

love-hate

Don't unchain me.

no. thats not freedom.

have you been blind?

the splotches of blood

the bruises.

infested bile.

if not.your abuse

what will i fight?

what will be left of.life?

you are doing me.no favours.

that last time i escaped

when you thought you caught me?

and then punished me

for the transgression,

remember that?

that wasn't you.

i came back.

i led you.to me.

otherwise

disappearing was easy.

has always been.

But easy ways

have never appealed to me.

except that one time.

when i chose.you.

that had been simple.

it was that moment

when you had said

you.wanted to choke.me.

so now.no.

I refuse to be unwanted baggage.

i am not the furniture

you leave behind.

i am that knife.that bottle.that joint.

you carry on your person.

enmeshed together.

the devil is the saviour.

who could have thought.

frames

a surreal moment.

of conversation

free flowing.natural.

unbelievable,but there's laughter.

almost like another time.

frozen.

in a monochromatic frame

ah.but.

i can see your hesitation

the unsure eyes

the half open lips

the unnatural pause.

relish this new frame.

let it join

the hallowed collection

with fraying edges.

dont ruin it

with that

i love you

thats dancing on your lips.

constellations

all of your faces

on the canvas

of the night sky.

the twinkling trajectory

of all that's been.

i tried to show her

last night.

that's my life right there

i said.

all she saw were stars.

and wanted me

to give rest

to my tired eyes.

My tired eyes.

as if she didn't know me at all.

when i go back

there will be

one star less tonight.

but she won't notice.

witness

peacocks in the sky

dancing with the moon

a little girl on a terrace

counting stars

clouded visions

nightly exhibitions

a hesitant breeze

knocks her over

who would know

the last thing she saw

were the dissipating

peacocks

in a cloudy vapour?

someone saw.

but then she.never tells.

always the silent witness.

perhaps some evening

you can sit with the moon

and ask for her stories.

why you?

because i have seen

how she looks at you

through the windows

of our room.

now you know why

i always draw the curtains.

amores

i am the hope and dream

of a thousand stars

that wake up to nights

and lose themselves therein.

ah.for a love like that.

i sigh.

i carry them

in my heart all day

to see up close and personal

my own paltry loves

that change as seasons do

and find repose

in a hundred arms.

ah.for a love like that.

i hear them sigh.

crimson

colour the walls red.

sparkling.jarring.

bloodcurdling red.

and on them

put up pictures.

of dead loved ones.

in white frames.

you are likely

to run out of pictures.

i vaguely remember

photographic bonfires

on birthdays and anniversaries.

there is a stack of newspapers.

old.new.bought.borrowed.

you will find

a pair of scissors

in the drawer next to the bed.

dont mind the pills.

cut out obituaries

and use them.

for the bedroom walls.

maybe then

they wont call me crazy

when i say

strange dead people

watch me

in my sleep.

the haze

another reluctant morning

greets me

with a detailed plan

of nothing.

the same implacable sun.

the same inexorable conscience.

hours stretched out

like a parched street dog.

nightly repose shall come

as always

at the very brink.

saving me

for another tautological day.

it is my fervent

and only hope

that some day

night will get caught up

in constellatory traffic.

or the charms

of an amorous dusk.

and get late.

not very.but just enough.

and reluctantly

lie awake

till dawn waltzes in

with more dreary nothing

to tell her

its all over.

a quiet day

tapestries of love

adorn peeling walls

of an empty house.

embellished with

its usual noises.

it has been a quiet day.

unendingly fruitful.

in thoughts of you.

i am finally

at peace

in my longing for you.

a tribute

contemplating life.

at the end of one.

the search for.meaning

begins again.

lets see when

the mission is aborted this time.

for now.

this is the only tribute

i can give to you.

thank you.

i know not

if it was a life well lived.

or fully.

but in its mortal moment

it made me pause.

even if fleetingly.

like lives seldom do.

it made me reach in

turn myself inside out

even as wolves waited.

it made me realize

i am as much carcass

even though i breathe.

in your bodily stillness

in the loss.of your loved one

i have gained

my reason

to ebb the flow of.life.

thank you

for telling me

its not worth it.

release

waking up

to death today

was a strange feeling.

everything seemed the same

but i watched from a distance.

it was not

the shadowy self

of dreams.

this was me.flesh and blood.

rotting flesh.and splattered blood.

or limp flesh.no sight of blood.

either way.it mattered not.

There was no heaviness of heart.

couldnt be.afterall.

there's air.and here.with me now.is vacuum.

but thought fosters like a weed.needs nothing.

i know what i shall say

when i meet him -

"Death be not proud."

ah.but in this case.

i see no smirk on his face.

as if saying

a wasted life takes all pleasure

out of death.

a mindless ritual.

thats what i was.

and he parted saying -

"you can thank me later."

sensation

not loneliness.

just boredom.

this time when

heartbreak came by.

its been a day.

or a few.

it could have been

a few hours.

i can recall the scene

only vaguely

but without a tear

or heaviness of heart.

and i think of you and me

from another time.

crisp still in memory.

now that was a lesson

in how its done.

the stomach churning.

the nervous palpitations.

death.but one more breath.

perhaps that was the last time

it mattered.

the pus of love removed.

now i understand, permanently.

lets meet for coffee.

i feel the need to feel again.

impasse

fading petals aching to give up fragrances.

wailing laughter battling stillness.

or the other way around.

conversational canvases splashed red.

blanks.beeps.a mor(o)se code.

a handful of fire to etch a forgetful memory.

a life lived grasping at straws.

it begins again.

she and i

she and i.

not friends.

lovers of the same you.

you brought her first.

and me at her insistence.

in different ways

you walk over each of us.

over and over.

and yet i am

a more intimate part

of your day

your adventures

of you

than her.

I who you slather.

with bits of you,

with your muck

Your slime

Your grime.

she who gets monosyllables

and silence by day.

separate rooms by night.

who said there were

no perks of being a doormat?

vacuous

i miss the pain

the heartache

the emptiness

the desperation

that was your absence.

now there is

only an absence.

not a void,mind you.

the thought of you

is a blank.

a constant one.

like a heartbeat.but dead.

a single unending beep.

my days and nights

- a curtain of haze.

fleeting time

going nowhere.

you could change all this.

but i seem to have found

a penchant for deadpan life.

thresholds

young.outspoken. more impetuous.

that could have been the diagnosis.

but my pain is old.perhaps as old as yours.

how then is yours so silent

even as mine shrieks,scratches,scuffles?

i wish you would teach me how to calm it down.

but i can see.in your eyes.

you have followed your pain.

into a silence whose ignominy

is second only 

to the disgrace of my words.

souvenir

i send you a yellow heart

for you are its sushine.

the dark dungeons

of viscous disillusion

have found windows

through which

you have entered.

the crimsoned bitterness

isnt a thing of the past

but a part of it

is yellowed by you, my love.

and thats what i give to you.

banality

forlorn roads.not deserted.

their burning neon lights

reach not

the darkness of the heart.

life here

is measured in heartbreaks.

home is far.and i drift further away.

this must be what success tastes like.

musings

find me a muse
happiness.
you would know
where to look.
perhaps the nooks,
those secret crevices
you have found
in our perpetual
hide and seek.
or that dimpled smile
on a darling face
that shines out 
of a memory every day.
day after day.
or the crimsoned horizon
lost forever 
once more 
in another dusk.
maybe leaf through
that yellowed book of poems
to find her laughing
in an august company.

my muse.She rests
in the deepest gorges 
of my bloodied heart.
sunken.exhausted.gashed.
let Her sleep.for some time.
its been long.

meanwhile, i was hoping
you could find someone.
and i know 
with a novice like you,
its risky.
but i trust you.to do justice.
dont disappoint me
my dear.
or you will wake Her up.