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.

--------

The verandah

They don’t touch

But stand

Apart

They share silence

Because they

Can

They smoke together

They burn

One

An occasional word

At times

Happens

A forgotten memory

Comes through

Sometimes

They turn around

And gently

Kiss

They smile within

It’s love

Forever

Red. White.

It was about five inches wide

A bold blood red line

Trailing in the wind, against the shadow

Hiding from the sunbeams

Softened by yards of white

The red line carried wrinkles

Familiar ones; the ones you own

And a smell perfectly overpowering

It ended in a tear unplanned

Caused by a rebellious nail

No one told you. No one cares

 About a nonchalant birthmark

You wore that red for decades

And carried the white like burden

Your face became unknown and unfamiliar

In the multitude of reds and whites

No ceremony or announcement

Your departure was as silent

As your inconsequential arrival

All they did was leave you with your red

Note #1

Hold my hand

Take me home

Gimme a life

A light in the dark

Sing a song

That calms me down

Speak the words

That speak the truth

Walk with me

Banish the fear

Stay with me

When the end is near

Give me a life

That is far from here

And I will give you mine

When it’s curtain call

Death of a dream

A mad wild dream of running down the stream

Collecting rogue pebbles that gather no moss

Kicking an odd twig or two right across the edge

The birds singing happy songs in words I don’t get

Where the houses and buildings melt away

The earth swallows the tar whole, black and set

The smoke retreats back into those lowly tubes

And freedom breathes gold, blue and red

The sky paints the stars in limited edition pixie dust

As they glimmer shyly from behind their veils

The moon, drunk from a night or wanton revelry

Laughs like a delirious old fool – loud and resonant

It’s in this dream you appear from behind the shadows

Your blade sharpened, dripping of red from the last battle

Creases of sorrow and death folded above your brows

And you crush the soft glades beneath your muddy boots

You come to find sleep you say, as your hands smell of pain

Men have hunted you, chased you and pierced your faith

And women have forsook their intuition and screamed

In fear that you have been sent by the unknown evil

“I ask for nothing,” you claim, “only some quiet moment.”

And settled under the non-judgemental tree to close your lids

I watch you, in deference, as only I can see the truth in you.

“Rest here,” I say, “for the morning will be a better promise.”

Somewhere, miles away, in a world that has lost its dreams

He watches my body shiver to a myriad happenings

And questions the whole morality of our existence

“If even by mistake, she dreams,” he decides, “she must die.”

Love?

I looked behind the curtain

Under the bed, inside the wallet

I ran up the stairs, left nearly breathless

And looked under the potted plants

In the kitchen, behind the sink

Under the sofa, over the closet

And between the ruffled sheets

I even turned the drawers upside down

But all was in vain; I found love hiding nowhere.

star struck

I am shy. My English is not that good you see.

Sometimes, I see you in the photograph of that magazine

I get houseflies in my belly

I stand on the balcony, playing with the end of my braid

It avoids the ends from cutting, ma says

And the coconut oil turns into ghee in them

The rowdy boys from the next dirty building

Once or twice, wave their hands at me or sing

But my eyes are stuck on you only

You never come to this city, they say

Because we are far from the train stop

But I have no river here for you to take the boat

The flowers are blooming big and orange

The curtains are smelling of orange flowers

And my eyes are dark from all the kohl

Then the burning smell; I left the rice on

Now it is sticking to the bottom of the pan

No food tonight even, but you are there no!

A Positive

She smiles a broken one

It’s a bit lopsided, with hints of saliva

Dribbling down the side

That she can’t quite wipe off

With a tender hand, she reaches out

To touch a smaller one

That trembled in fear and wonder

She comforts, without any comforting

A missing toe, a mangled nose

Distorted lips minus the colour

A damp white sheet, washed once

Transformed into her saving grace

The tiny little face stares at her

Her dishevelled hair lay flat

As she twisted her little thumb

Around one cooperating curl

Ten years, seven months and eight days

Not quite enough to kill her soul

As he broke her body little by little

She just smiled. And kept on smiling

Measuring distances

Someday when the lights are so dim that the shadow you cast from the room to the verandah won’t appear so frightening anymore - and in that little second that it takes you to cross the room and into the depth of the tree outside - I’d have written my song.

That little song I promise you many afternoons ago; when the summer heat had little consideration for our intentions.

The verses would be open and so would the tunes; we'd change them as we like and sing with our hearts clear of guilt. 

The ruffled sheets have been changed a million times and more and yet they bore the fragrance of stories we shared; something funny that we could never let go of or even fingers that were entwined, as if war was on our doorstep.

The telephone could be swiped a million times and it would not run out of my DNA and perhaps if one tried harder, some conversations too could be secured.

I changed rooms, curtains, lanes, streets, cities, jobs, men, lovers, clothes, shoes. I even tried to change the way I think. Funny, none of it was in vain.

All of it seems so far away now.

C’est La Vie – or not

Do restaurants that aim to bring new cuisines into a city bear the responsibility of making sure that the diner’s experience is anything but disappointing? Afraid so; but very few live up to those expectations…

I have never been to France. It’s on my bucket list, but I am not working on my bucket list at the moment. However, I was willing to travel to Seven Hotel to their restaurant called C’est La Vie. Well honestly, I was surprised that the place is still open, considering no one had been talking about it for a while. But instead of relying on my instincts, which is what I should have done, a bunch of us drove out to Outer Ring Road to eat ‘French Food’. It was an exciting moment for all of us. And as we brushed up on the five French words we knew to identify names of food, the restaurant and café brought a smile onto our faces. It was cute.

And that was the end of our fabulous journey.

The menu at C’est La Vie was anything but French; except for the Duck Parmentier and a few dishes here and there. They had chicken nuggets on the menu and stuff that we only cook frozen when unexpected guests drop in.

But willing to forgive slighter misgivings, we ordered a bottle of wine which came with a free cheese platter - cheese being slices of processed cheese and a few slices of brie that didn’t look or taste too fresh.

And then there was the Chicken Pappiti – neither of us knew what that was. A few pieces of chicken were rolled and stuck with toothpicks and looked a little like bacon wrapped chicken and served with fries. They weren’t bacon wrapped chicken. It was more like chicken tossed in a kind of vinegar and pan-fried. The fries were good, especially with a bowl of ketchup, and I don’t even eat ketchup.

The Warm Goat Cheese on Bread looked rather rustic, in a nice kind of way. However, that goat cheese could be warmer and I can’t quite imagine the fussy French biting into large chunks of toasted bread and having crumb all over their plates and expensive clothing. Some greens were on the side to resemble a salad and hidden underneath were cubes of cucumber and tomatoes.

I also believe that the goat cheese was kind of older than I expected.

I don’t know how the main course tasted because whatever we wanted to order was either not there or ‘not good’ according to a chef we never saw appear from the kitchen door. The Duck Parmentier was on the top of our mind but not made available to us.

However, the Bisque Soup was sort of edible. Bits of prawn in a nice wholesome tomato based soup – I ate that to control my growing rage because the Chicken Brie Soup was heartbreaking. It smelt of flour of coconut milk and was so pale than I could have seen a ghost. There was zero texture and where on earth was the spinach that is supposed to go into that soup?

The table next to us was taken and the diners there too were having difficulty with the food. I realised their problem when one said, “As far as I know, pesto sauce is supposed to be red in colour.”

Sadly, much to their disadvantage, they didn’t know that they were in a restaurant that completely fit their dining profile – clueless.

Nope. Looks like I have to start working on that real bucket list soon.