White lies

What do you want for your birthday

She asked him quietly

You, he said, without much hesitation

It was an obvious lie

She wanted to believe that lie

And she clearly did

It made her illusion a little happier

And she needed it

That lie travelled across the globe

In her little pocket

Across cities, states and nations

Like a secret bodyguard

A few years later, on a winter’s day

His wedding invite came

She had to be there, for his sake, it said

And she would go

Her painted feet touched the floor

And walked gently

Towards the glittering decorations

As she stood before him

It was going to end tonight for sure

Their silly fairy tales

He was checking out for good

From her pretend world

But she was smiling from the heart

Even shook his hands

And the soft hands of the beautiful new ‘her’

Taking home just the lie 

Light up

It’s interesting how

Smoke from a cigarette

Dances to its own tunes

Swaying, twirling and shifting

It’s interesting how 

A little light from the sun

Makes the whole dance

Into one big theatre production

And then you blow

Gently into the centre

And the smoke disappears

Leaving little or no visual trace

But your drapes

And your sheets and pillows

Hold the memory

Of every cigarette ever smoked

Just like love. 

Her. Him.

When she came

She stared at him

And with tears in her eyes

In utter silence

She gave him her heart

When she came

He looked at her tears

Tenderly, with affection

And wondered when

And how he'd hurt her 

Just another day

At some point, the flowers do stop coming

The party and cake orders cease

A moment you thought was special, at some point

Competes for some recognition amidst the regularity

Some people forget, some don’t bother to make that call

The number of thank yous has reduced

Like clockwork, you make coffee, eat toast and egg

And like every single day, clock in silently at nine thirty

Candles are saved for power failures, you believe

And not for silly moments of romance

You know there won’t be strawberries and champagne

When you hurry back home, knackered, at seven

The love is there, somewhere, hidden, you explain

Possibly like the gift you won’t find

It’s in the eyes or in the lines of his unclenched palms

Behind the boredom or embedded in the ageing brain

Be the goddess of the night; give him a new 'you';

The pressure’s been on for a while

You eat more greens, no grains, and retrieve the curves

 You drop sizes, go shopping and even get some makeup

That night, as you rub lotion into your tender, tired, hands

And glance at his hair you love so much

You realise that you want to love and like never before

But now you’ve become the girl no one wants to touch…

man/woman

You’re a woman. Be strong. Life is going to throw many more challenges at you. You have to face them all.

I shiver.

Sometimes, I don’t want to be strong. I want to give in to whatever the hell is going down; it’s could very well be the only way my soul would be purged.  

I don’t want to hold fort all the time. And sometimes, I really cannot. My knees buckle and I can feel the earth crumble beneath my feet.

Sometimes, I do not want to take on the world. I don’t want to read feminist lines that talk about equality of women and empowerment.

I cannot be a feminist. Feminism is differentiation of some sort. I am human. To me, men and women are the same - Both love, laugh, hate, hurt, cry and hide. Social definitions mean nothing to me. I don’t care about straight people or gay people – I care about the line between good and bad and I know that sometimes, a sandstorm can hide that line. People cross over all the time. We are all guilty of something and if we sit on our high horses and start to judge, we’re damned. And it won’t matter whether we are straight or gay bi-curious or asexual.

Sometimes, I don’t want to be a woman at all.

I don’t like the idea of being told, “when you have your periods, it’s god’s way of telling you that you hold the key to giving life.”

I don’t give life to anything. I only facilitate the entrance. And I don’t want to bleed to prove that. 

I don’t want to be the woman who’s patted on the back for her bravery because people almost didn’t expect her to make it through to the next level. 

I don’t want to be told how fortunate I am to have found someone who cares. Sometimes, I would like that to be said about me.

I wonder how many people would have told my husband that: you’re one lucky bastard to have her. 

None of my exes, I am certain. 

In my weakest moments – when I can barely walk or lift a hand to push hair away from my face, I have someone doing it for me. Someone helps me get off the bed and put on my clothes, takes me to work and waits to bring me back. I have been fed, hugged, comforted, tickled and entertained when all I wanted to do was crawl under the bed and possibly, perish.

And that someone is not a woman.

I am proud that I am alive and healthy enough to earn a living. I am also proud that I am human. But honestly, I don’t give a rat’s ass about being a woman. I think this whole gender thing is way too overrated.

I do

He’d given her a smooth pebble

It was black, no, dark blue

And always cold

And oddly, comforting 

One day she took that pebble

And hit it against her head

And again

And again

Again

Till blood oozed out of her forehead

And a tiny river was born

Finally, they were married.

Love

Lover

Your taste

Is like coffee

On a rainy night

Darling

Your memory

Is like salt

That rims the eyes

Sweetheart

Your song

Is like cinnamon

It sweetens the lips

My love

Your name

Is like white smoke

That gently disappears

Unnamed #5

How is it that I wait for a date that doesn’t exist anymore?

Why is it that I remember it right from the beginning?

Why do I remember where we sat and what you said?

Is it because you never really let me forget?

Why is it that I have to explain myself everywhere,

But the one place, where I never have to, shut down?

How come you’re not willing to cross this excruciating distance?

Is it because gratitude fastens its claws around your wrists?

Or is it because, deep within, all I have become is just a happy memory?

Unnamed #3

Do you remember the fragrance from the Frangipani behind our room

Told us stories of different lands that we all knew never existed?

Remember how we sneaked in dried nuts and put them under our pillows

To be strictly had, in the dark, during those insane story telling sessions?

I remember them like I would a favourite jigsaw puzzle from those days

Pieces you know will eventually come together but not right away

I remember some songs, some funny games, and fights we had over nothing

And how it all ended without a warning and vanished behind the doors

Occasionally, I would read these novels that had the two of us in the middle

They were us, with different faces, different names and different stories

But I would ride through the story like a desperate and wounded horse

That had to reach before it fell on an unknown plot and bled to death

Your best friend left the country and you cried because she didn’t ask you once

My lover walked out and I burnt all his letters that we knew were seriously lacking

Under my bed, rotted a stuffed bear that my second lover gave for a birthday

You poked fun at me, called me a child and ran out of the room with your pigtails

You make me smile even without intention and from that overwhelming distance

You and I no longer ask, call, speak, wish, love, hate, cry, laugh, smile or argue

Lives were parted, with a wide-toothed comb, possibly to untangle the rough edges

Causing deep lines, differences, lack of interest and general disregard for each other

We turn defiant, annoyed, and annoying, and let our egos take over as puppeteers

You walk in the snow, hurt your neck, shiver in the cold, go months without money

I burn in the sun, hurt my neck, reel under the heat and go months without money

It’s ironic, isn’t it, how in a way we live identical lives without even asking for it?

Unnamed #2

Now that you have worn all your gold

That dances to the light from the window

And sung your song and read your story 

Is your head, now resting on his shoulder?

I was there. Right there, somewhere visible 

I told him once, perhaps slightly too aloud 

That our fates were fastened together

And then, I told him again, this time quietly.

You banished the chillies out from the curry

And fed him slowly, bite by bite 

As he stared into your eyes that mirrored his

And dreamed of the wild ocean at your feet.

You walked, leaving a trail on the sand

He sat, afar, watching with addicted eyes

While you smiled unknowingly, blushing a little

Whispering his name into the seductive breeze.

I tore at my hair and gouged my eyes out

Bared my soul and abandoned my ego

Told him. Begged him. It was only him I could love

But it was never too often and never too surely.

The two of you built a castle without walls

Filled with jewels, children, felines and tureens

You laughed, wept, shared tales and relived moments 

And made love in summer without complaining.

I saw it all. I saw it from a distance one can't measure

Cracks had begun to appear on my cursed forehead

I forgot the lines, the maps, the names and time

From your door, I didn't quite know the direction.

Unnamed

I cradled her in my arms as she slept. The tiniest of fingers wrapped around mine. I couldn’t sleep. What if I missed this tomorrow morning? And as she began to smile in her sleep, dark circles began to form around my eyes. A candle burnt on the table, threatening to end before its turn. Overworked candles. I always felt a little pity for them. Thankless jobs.

Can one daydream at night? I have often wondered. As a few familiar books began to collect mites on the shelf, I thought of our first day together. ‘Our’ day. It was special. There was no else after classes. We were watching the clouds shape-shift. “It is going to rain,” you had said. I didn’t have an umbrella, and hadn’t cared.

That was, what, 20 years ago?

Adhuna was sleeping on the floor. Her old bones would give up at night, as she would writhe in her sleep, often fighting bad dreams. I would watch her too. Why did she work here? I hardly paid her anything.

For three years, Adhuna took care of me, and now her. She came to me like a discarded orphan, well into her fifties, asking for a job. I needed someone to just be at home when I came back every evening.

For three years she worked without complaining. My little flat looked like a home within a week of her employment. After many years, I didn’t have to eat dinner silently.

Diva by day, broken by night – month after month, I had fought the craving to end it, the charade I was playing without a break. Adhuna would wash my clothes and iron them carefully. She would oil my hair once a week and shampoo it as I sat on a stool with water and tears pouring down my almost naked body.

Adhuna. Adhuna became Adhuna ma.

I had named her Adhuna as well; the original was not going to live for too long. I needed something to remember her by.

I had saved money for Adhuna; money I had sworn to never touch.

Six months before the little one came, Adhuna went to her village, to meet her brother and sister-in-law. I had handed over ten thousand rupees to her, money that I had saved for her, and told her to buy them something. She came back with the money, shoved them into my hands and never spoke of them again.

It was 4am. An unnatural force was dragging down my eyelids. I fell asleep.

When I woke, it was already 10am. Adhuna had cooked my breakfast, packed my lunch, fed the baby, bathed it and was sitting on the little balcony reading out the newspaper to a five-month old. I never asked where Adhuna learnt English. I felt she would be embarrassed if I did.

It was my tenth year at the newspaper. Things had changed. From a sensible set of pages, the paper had turned into something that fed the population only with what they wanted. There were no opinions, no stands taken anymore. My day began and ended exactly the same way – with a sigh.

The morning of my so-called ‘anniversary’ at the job, Adhuna brought out my favourite tunic. “Wear this today. You look very nice in it,” she laid it out on the bed. Lining my dark eyes with some kohl, I tied my hair back. I didn’t really know how I looked anymore. I had stopped looking years ago.

“Didi, I have cleaned the breast pump,” Adhuna said, handing over the silly contraption.

It was a long day at work. There was an office party at the Press Club that went on till 1am. After literally forcing a news editor to drop me back home, I walked up the stairs of the dilapidated building. A decade. I have seen other decades. A decade of marriage. A decade of romance. A decade of friendships. Nothing quite stays.

Even if you tie it to your soul with a magic link, things have a way of slipping out of your life. There is no ‘forever’.

A tall glass of cold water brought me back to my senses. Stop complaining, I said, you have more than what you deserve and much more than some others. Everything that functions in your life is a miracle.

Switching on the light in the bedroom, thanking that there was no power outage, I washed my face, my feet and changed clothes.

Where is he?

Does he know what day is today?

Is he thinking of me today? At least today?

An Ernest Hemingway lay next to me. I had read it five times already, and had started it all over again.

Tomorrow might be the same but it will be a different day.

“What do you think Adhuna? Will I get a raise this quarter?”

There was no answer. Even the baby didn’t stir. Even the lingering shadows of a dead adopted mother and a baby had disappeared.

Yes, tomorrow will be a different day. But it will be the same.

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