flight of freedom #1

I shed the last vestiges of my past
today. I plucked each memory out.
it was slow and painstaking. They
had said, it was important, even
necessary, to move forward. I look
different now. Not better or worse.
Different, now that my wings are gone.

In the distance, I can see someone
picking up feathers of unknown hues.
with an unbecoming delight.

My past will sit in a small brown vase
In the intimacy of books and unwept
tears. Meanwhile, I shall spend myself
staring at an unchallenged sky.

Freedom, it turns out, is only about
choosing the chains, and timelessness
binds us just as well as its counterpart.

hide and seek

4:47 am
You sounded rather calm
when you got the call
(and i have seen you surprised
at every mundane sunrise)
Your monosyllabic response
was matter of fact in acceptance.
Sober you couldn't manage hysterics
even when the occasion demanded it.
As if it wasn't the news of my hanging
you were being informed about.
You kept the receiver back on its base,
and went back to sleep.

They would have found a note
If they had checked your messages.
But your phone had been dead
longer than me.

2:42am
"Would you look for me?
Where would you begin?
lost to time, will the words
of a younger me blaze a trail,
or will the breadcrumbs of older
silences lead you astray?

would you dare put your hand
in the hornet's nest of my mind
(that could not sort through its
own memories) to pull out a
forgotten hope of meaning?

could death be one more night in
a tangled mass of festive string lights
that cannot be unknotted?"

They would have found your reply
in your message drafts folder.

2:51am
"Where do i begin?
At the lingering inadequacy of every day,
or the disappointment that weighs heavy
on the laughter we still share,
the anger from this pretence of sanity
or perhaps the sheer exhaustion of having
nothing to say. But we will be free soon.
And in time i will find you.
Like i always have."

But they never cracked the security code.
And you never woke up.

some of us

Some of us live life like we drive.
Eyes on the road ahead. Meeting
potholes we swerve to evade.as cars
chase neglected side view mirrors.And
we drown out their garish frustrations
with pink floyd.comfortably numb (but
for that speed bump we almost did expect!)

Some of us walk, like we live. Straight
into intricate cobwebs woven lovingly
across branches hung low, unsure of the
fragrances of the old woman's backyard,
certain only of the words we have read
as our unsynchronized feet tread on
trampled leaves of yesterday's bloom.

Some of us sit down to our third round
of dinner, way past midnight, tuned in
to a graduation speech about 'keeping the
hunger alive!' (Burp!) Did they mean this?
It would be refreshing.After all the platitudes
that make us reach for crusty old ice cream for
the uneasy oil floating along the food pipe.

Some of us go silent. And listen only to the
music of dead people who should have known
better. We wonder what it takes to walk into an
open manhole, drive past the railing off a freeway,
have a bowl of unnamed white pills for the next meal.
Hope could lie in an accident waiting to happen,
for some of us. Fear could be the only consolation,
for some of us.For some of us, it will never be okay.
and for some of us, that is quite okay.

slippery slopes

Sometimes stubbornness is merely
helplessness,struggling for meaning
in escape. Silence often gushes out
of eddying thoughts, and you remain
unsure whether the minty unease at the
base of your throat is acidity or words.

you go back to the music of a man
who hung himself on your best friend’s
birthday, and didn’t find you worthy of a
‘why’, after all this time (if indeed a linear
measure can fit).

                           sometimes,you wake up
to the noose. 

                         and the lingering scent of
insect repellent fills your nostrils reminding
you of the night before. when you played god
to a wasp that failed, or perhaps refused
to comprehend the purpose of a door.
Where is Disney when you need it? In their
romantic hands, this could have been a
heroically yellowed flight for self affirmation.
Definitely a musical. 

                               But as it turned out, the
inglorious end was mopped up under the
darkness of a monsoonal moon, even as
unsteady hands slipped into sanitized
narratives of sufficient guilt and numbness
on loan.perhaps that is how it all winds up.

And the sharp edges of borrowed pain will
take you through one.more.night. morning
will bring mother’s disapproval of kohl stained
pillow covers.that saw more than they reveal.

different strokes

sketch me one of those easy afternoons
-a charcoal sketch- of old friends sitting
together on a day that has not yet met its
expiry date, a time before companionship
became subject to first come first serve rules,
across a makeshift table with chairs dragged,
borrowed and stolen from other clusters
when they weren't watching, having
unassuming conversations over expensive
lunches nobody really paid for, laughing at the
stroke of two when the pull of rajma chawal
was greater than mandated duties, perpetually
planning escapades born of quixotic ambition.
beyond the borders of the canvas sit strangers
eyeing wistfully a camaraderie that is theirs
in some other sketch of some other memory.

Paint me a barmy evening with watercolors
- running into monsoonal excesses- of a walk
through potholed paths and shrill cries for
attention from cars and bikes while cyclists fall
off the edges of a world, theirs only in its periphery.
A piece of discarded blade reaching through worn-out
kolhapuri chappals bleeds alta on the road home
across alleys embellished with trampled flowers
and dog poop.The white churidar stains a muddy red
in response to questions the empty house never asks.

Write me a poem of a reluctant night heavy with
the aching humidity of accumulated pain,
blanketing embittered dead stars in a cityscape
of loss made of concrete, longing for a respite
that is possible only among mountains, rivers and
crickets, where in the breeze that becomes breath,
the space for the 'I' is undone.Write me a(n) un-i-verse.

mirasmus

When did you last let yourself go
on a wooden swing whose creaks
have coloured memories older than
you, reminding you unwittingly of
the things you used to fear. height
wasn't one of them.back then.now,
so many things are so different.
age creeping into your knees.metabolism.
the scramble for company.ear wax.
glass shards in your eye.sudden noises.
Fashion sense.unborn daughters.

swinging to these rhythms of change
life catches up with you in the name
of the holy spirit,the watchman
telling you of the curfew on swings
in this community park, free for all.
Not after 11 pm. (children get
preference all day, giving you a window
too tiny to climb into and make it.)
Reflection is not suited to LED lit AC
rooms, you want to tell him. That the arc
of oscillation is ready to reveal a potential
secret and you are fated to receive it, here.
now. But the haggard man in uniform
helpless to follow administration's orders
expects compliance.and pity, not sure for whom.

The open doors of your house greet you
with a warm stench of something rotten and
the irremediable hope of pushing your fears to
the pit of your stomach with the force of old
over watched sitcoms, where they will lie until
5 am dreams regurgitate them, leaving you
wakefully suspended in mirasmus.
the prisoner of a war of your own making.

mirror mirror

Every morning, you stand before the mirror.
You look at your face, but never closely.
there are things for dryness (your nose tends
to break out into little white flakes, Dead skin),
things to smoothen and hide 'beauty spots',
You recently bought something for the little bags
collecting darkness under your eyes, harvesting a
fatigued view of this world.
the liner keeps you from unwanted questions,
the new kohl pencil justifies a watering that
just cannot seem to catch a break. Salty.
the lips are allowed paleness. sometimes their
fruity flavours help change the now homely
metallic taste in the mouth. From too much coffee,
or a long pending root canal, or certain kinds of days.

in the day, you can hide inside a mirror.
it gives you an outside face you can carry
around for the world. But as night falls,
the mask melts, wears off. Even for the
bipolar mirror. Embittered by its own
hypocrisy, it will force you to come closer.
to look at yourself.shorn of comforting narratives.
and when silver truth peers at you,
sleepless nights are a foregone conclusion.

mornings must find you once again
before hallucinogenic mirrors
glossing over your losses,
making up for things that can never
in truth be made up.