Monthly Archives: June 2014

Season Finale

I see why you are miserable. Misery to you is blessed release from life’s arrogant happiness that it selfishly keeps in shelves high above your reach. I stalk you close for weeks, months even. I have seen you defy logic and reason. You are diabolically genius, eccentric and mad. Yet with you I’m happy, with you I’m sad.

I’ve seen what you do, I followed like a shadow. I’ve seen you get high, I know your lows. That look in your eyes when she died? I know that non- existent heart inside of you broke into a thousand shards and cried. That show you put on of guiltlessly moving on? You miss him and you know you’ll be alone again now.

I also know that playful slap on her back wasn’t just playful, oh no. I caught that look of adolescent pleasure in those seemingly uninterested eyes.

I know you loved them. I know you think you love yourself more. I know I love you most.

And now that you’re leaving, your misery has passed on to me. You ironic, sarcastic, dumb witted genius. I shall miss you.

I know you’re smiling ruthlessly now.

From fanpop.com

______________________________________________________________________

(On watching the Season finale of House M.D.)

 

 

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MINE.

 

What am I?

You?

You’re the blush that winter brings and the gleam of summer rays. You’re the curve of a smile, the blink of kohl lined eyes. You’re the grace of ballet and the swish of the robe. You’re the heat of passion and the tingling cold. You’re an electric zing, you’re caressing silk, you’re butterfly wings on creamy skin. You’re hot chocolate on a wintry morn, you’re ice cubes pulled across my arm.

You’re the strange melody that plays on loop and fills my head with radiant dreams. You’re the twinkle fairy’s easy charm, my pied piper of Hamelin. You’re tingling laughter and searing light and piano keys that musically glide. You’re the snug sweater, binding bandage holding together rattling insides.

You’re the cocaine of the poetry of heartbeats. Your soft sigh is my high.

Your zig-zag hair, your criss-cross ways, your blink-back tears, your in-out dimples, your shush-shush words? You’re exhilarating.

You’re mine.

 

 

And the Liebster goes to..

Me, apparently! 😀

liebster-award

So, here’s the mandatory (though not regretted) speech. Thank you, for having given this month old assortment of poetry, fiction and miscellaneous thoughts an award. This comes to me from Anoop, who writes TRANQUIL, yet Alive ( http://anooppillaiz.wordpress.com/ ). I stumbled across his blog just a few days ago, and follow because I find it entertaining, Indian in its roots and honest in tone. Way to go, Anoop!

(And er, thanks for the follow back ((though that totally wasn’t what I was aiming for, of course :P)))

This is how the award works:

  1. Thank the Liebster Award presenter who nominated you and link back to his or her blog.
  2. Post 11 facts about yourself, answer the 11 questions you were asked and create 11 questions for your nominees.
  3. Nominate small (no more than 200 followers) blogs who you feel deserve to be noticed and leave a comment on their blog letting them know that they have been chosen.
  4. Display the Liebster Award logo.
  5. No tag-backs, meaning you can’t just re-nominate the person who nominated you.

The speech of gratitude done, I now have to go through the pointless humiliating illuminating exercise of telling you 11 things (Why 11 though? Why can it not be 12 or 13?) about myself:

1. I started blogging only because my best friend/soulmate kept nagging me. I have always wanted to blog, but then, I have always been lazy as well. I like it though, and it gives me the drive to keep writing. Thank you soulmate! (Stop gloating.)

2. There are only three things I’d really like doing in life: Eat, Sleep and Read.

3. I go to university. Some day, I’d like to take up teaching or become a writer or win the lottery and become a millionaire- whichever happens first.

4. Lizards and cockroaches scare me, though I leave no stone unturned in telling people that they are harmless and one must care for them. So do strays. Come to think of it, so do hens strutting about.

5. I like posing trick questions. For eg., Do you think I talk a lot? This way, I get to make you feel bad whichever way you respond.

6. I write poetry. I’d like to get published, some day.

7. I am an ardent fan of people with humour and sarcasm. That is why I love House M.D (The show rocks kicks ass)

8. I am waiting for the day I wake up and find my head crammed with storylines for the hundred novels I am going to publish (Wish away..)

9. I cannot tolerate hate am learning how to cook, and hope I will some day achieve mastery over it.

10. Harry Potter is my childhood, present and future.

11. I am extremely impatient. Which makes me wonder how I got through writing all this. Fame gets to people’s heads I guess *sniff*

Now for the questions Anoop has for me:

1. Are you addicted to something? If yes, What? (other than alcohol, cigars and drugs)

Books. Will somebody pay me for reading please? PLEASE? My favourite authors are Wodehouse and Archer. I read all sorts of fiction. Day and night.

2. What does money mean to you? Why? (No one liners please)

Money means I have a future where I can do what I please and follow my dreams uninhibitedly. Money means my parents don’t have to work. Money means lesser worry and it is extremely important to me.

Money means I can tour Europe and meet the Harry Potter cast!

3. What is your passion? What do you like to do the most apart from eating and sleeping?

READING. Does that count as a passion? But it is! I thrive on books.

4. What quality of your best friend/friends do you admire?

She is patient, resilient and sturdy. She puts up with my tantrums. She cooks amazingly well? 😛

5. Have you ever felt guilty for doing something in life, that keeps troubling you even now?

No. I feel momentary lapses of guilt when I lie, but I’m a good advocate for myself and end up placating my conscience 😀

6. What is that one good thing that you can proudly say to anyone about yourself, I mean a lesson from your life that people can learn?

I followed my heart and took up literature in uni, though I took science in school. This raised eyebrows, but I stuck to what I wanted. I’m editing this post once I climb Everest though.

7. Have you ever been in a relationship with someone? If yes What did you learn/admire / hate about being in a relationship ?

Geez, this is personal man!

Who am I kidding, no. Unless we’re counting crushes and flirting.

8. Whom do you admire the most in your family? (Doesn’t need to be your parents or siblings, can be cousins or anyone in the family)

My brother. I look up to him because he stands up for what he believes in. He is awesome. And he doesn’t read this blog, so I can safely say all this and he can’t  chide me. HA!

9.What kind of person are you? (Funny/humorous/serious/shy…….)

I’m okay. A combination.

10. If you were given a chance to go out on a dinner with, Who would that lucky one be?

Hrithik Roshan.

11. Which is your favorite post from your blog? If I would insist that you pick one out of the lot, Which one would that be?

A poem I wrote, “Pray Tell Me“.

Now comes the awkward part! I need to nominate blogs that are “small”, but I only know two a few. Well, here go the deserving ones:

1. http://daydreamsandferriswheels.wordpress.com/

2. http://nazishnawab.wordpress.com/ ( She has more than 200 followers, but follow her anyway! )

These guys are great! Go follow.

Cheers.

PS: Too lazy to make up new questions. Answer the same ones?

 

 

A slimy memoir (of sorts).

He watched them leave him alone without any pain or remorse. They weren’t the first.

He had always been labeled an outcast. His father (or rather, the father) tried to keep him away from his mother’s wrath, who for no apparent reason was always trying to smack him. His childhood was spent in the agony of trying to run away from those he lived with, except that he seemed to enjoy it. A non conformist, he called himself.

His enjoyed the dark. Nobody in the family did, and that suited him well enough. He would roam through the house, careful not to wake them up; but then he was stealthy. He flinched at the glow of the night lights, wrinkled his nostrils at the flowers, stayed away from the whirring fans and marveled at the beautiful cobwebs. Once or twice he ventured close enough to mother, and saw the deep wrinkles on her face as she slept with her mouth slightly ajar. He would try his best not to get in her way while awake- he knew she hated him.

It was the little one he loved best. Simply because she was the only one in the family who was unafraid. She would squeal with joy on seeing him and spend hours talking to him about her imaginary friend, a bird (he would squirm), and recount stories of how her ‘friend’ caught worms(he would squirm again). Mother would take a look at the pair of them, and station herself somewhere close so he wouldn’t be up to his tricks. He could hardly plead his innocence to her. He was dumb.

He had known since a few weeks that they were leaving. The house was full of boxes and dust, and provided a lot of scope for exploration. When the last box had been loaded in the monstrous truck, he knew he would be alone again. The little girl cried bitterly and refused to be placated by the hassled father. Mother drove them away without a backward glance.

He watched them leave him alone without any pain or remorse. They weren’t the first.

The house being empty did not make him sad. The activity in the past few weeks had led to an upsurge of spiders. That delighted him. He slumbered through the day, and feasted during the night.

The house lizard lived on, oblivious to human presence, or absence.

Source : www.zoo4you.co.uk
Picture Source : http://www.zoo4you.co.uk

Hapless hues

Seemed everytime the bluest of blues it is
that bless me with the bolts.
The pedestal, which proudly sport you, my sapphire,
which pompously ranted of bearing your breath
seems to carry this purple pockmark ploughed on its face

Wait. Does it not show a hint of violet
that spells it stiff to trace
the seed of the scar?
Does my soul borrow its hue from there?

I know, you know, only we know – that
this purple strays from the ruby;
from the red, red ruby I wished and had –
That’s too precious though,
for my insipid crown to carry
That’s too much though,
for my ignorant self to own

Is this an ode to colours?
to the colours of this universe?
Colours that dye the spirits
that come transparent to this home
Colours that conceal the kinds, sometimes;
Colours that are inevitable though?

No, this isn’t of those colours.

These are the colours of me,
of the universe I preserve;
Colours that homed black darkness
in this putrid shell of mine
that hinted a grey, the only shade I ever remember;
a grey that always reminded of a shroud

This is for the colour of the soul
that was eternally singing the white swan’s song
With timeless threats of doom
and least hopes of silver rays

And one day came you, the orange sun,
in my indigo skies
With the greatest golden gleam
that pierced through the grey clouds
with ginger streaks that dried away my brown fears
The sun that added this yellow tinge to my maroon smiles
Smiles that used to hide mauves and majentas,
that had always turned blue and ended colourless.

My friend, my love, my soul!
In this brilliant universe of yours
that’s blessed with a hundred hues
I’m only too mean to not allow
new colours in your rainbow
Just because mine is achromatic
and so perhaps fails to reflect you
just because my soul seems stained
with the scars –
of longing for love
of fear of frustration
of guilt of gluttony
(of love, yours)

Nay, let me not leave my soul a bleeding red, red rose.
(Is Red not too ravishing to sweep so many Likes?)

This soul is pale – of an ever more pallid heart
that bears the fading colour of the falling petals

Limpid my love should be, I now guess.
so you can only see through it
so I’m not left wailing
that your love is but a compensation
for my lost fervours, for people and places and stuff.

Colourless my love should be, I now realize.
so I’m left free of guiltof grazing your green love
all to satiate myself;
of yearning for more coins of solace, in my beggar bowl.

Let my soul recommence
Seeking its solace
in the colours of music
in the colours of silence
and in the colours of my quiet thoughts
of you.

May you not be aware that my eternal search
is for you,
You – the headspring of my everflowing elixir
in the deepest of the deep crevices inside;
For you, my life-giving waters
colourless yet give the colour of my lifeblood.

Never did I know whence these waters take their start,
Never do I know the channels it traverse, the roads it cross
Never will I know where they head to
May I also never know
the hues of this vital water
So long as it gives me my life

I pray you tell me –
Is it true that the purest of the souls
are the whitest ones?
So, can my soul be white?

But, but
what if these white souls only have
a white that fakes,
a white that flies the flakes of flamboyance,
a white that isn’t white at all?

So, may I beseech
my soul stay colourless.
Let it be a crystal
A diamond
the perfect platform for the colours to converge
Probably to reflect, in all its cuts,
You, only you.

(I pray you tell me
Do you still call the soul, that carries the colour of yours,
The soul of a sister? 🙂 )

Pray forgive me

I know, love, that what I’ve done

is wrong, and I deserve this

But did you know that when you’re mad

your eyes narrow into shining jewels

Your tender face blushes red;

your nostrils flare and tremble so

Your hair flies in a magical way

that enchants and thrills as it sways

The air, it crackles with passionate red

that I must tell you, unashamed-

I know, love, I’m sorry but

to deserve this, I’d do it again.

Red

 

hot-headed anger and passionate love
a red splotch- the kumkum- divinity.
the setting sun and its crimson rays
stop-the traffic light says.
strawberries on shrubs on a dewy morn
lipstick-the woman uses to adorn.
blood that trickles down from a vein
at the butcher’s- when a throat is slain.
the fragrant rose-lover’s gift,
lips that part in a smile
blushing cheeks-head bowed, mind
in love, and in love blind.
waving cloth-the bulls’ fright.
juicy tomatoes and apples to bite
and the rainbow’s end, and the forest flowers
that little red riding hood picks.
and fiery flames that reach dizzying heights
they lap up everything in sight.

Just another day.

As she threw back her head and laughed, she saw him. Her laughter caught in her throat, she froze. He stood slouched against the wall. He was hardly heart-stoppingly handsome- broad forehead, a mop of curly hair, close-set eyes, and lips that sloped up on one side when he smiled. However, it wasn’t his face but his demeanor that caught her attention. He just stood there, with his hands in his pockets, nodding in that way of his. He looked up suddenly, and their eyes met. An electric zing passed through her from head to toe. She wanted to tear herself away from his unfaltering gaze, but like the moon that resolvedly keeps revolving around the earth, held on. Did he feel that jolt too? She tried to fathom from his expression, but only met his deep blue eyes, eyes that seemingly gave nothing away. How she wished she could read them at the moment. The boy held her gaze. He looked supremely uninterested, but then, he still held her gaze. Was he intrigued? She wanted to know very much. He looked cool and calculating. She suddenly felt very self conscious. What was she wearing, she tried to remember. She couldn’t risk looking down and breaking eye-contact. After what seemed like an eternity, the boy looked away. The girl looked away too. There was chaos around her and resounding silence within. The thumping of her heart could clearly be heard in the din, and if she thought people could hear it, she didn’t care. Everything looked hazy, and if there was one point that had definite form in the place, it was where he stood. He was a focal point now, and everything around him seemed overshadowed by his sheer brilliance. She shook her head, trying to clear away the myriad of emotions that had suddenly sprung up, but to no avail. She gulped. No, do not look at him again, her conscience told her. She looked at him anyway. It was then that she saw it. The smile that took her breath away. Their eyes met again. Before she knew it, her feet had carried her towards him, and there she stood before him, blushing and furiously trying to hide it.

A few gazillion feet above them, Cupid ticked off yet another name on his list. Sighing contentedly, he glided away, his golden bow glimmering against the radiant sky.

Fluffy

 

I remember when I first came home, I smelt fresh paint all around. There was a big wooden bed with a beautiful headboard. And the baby! Gurgling, giggling and gleefully babbling away in that tongue that only other diaper-clad members of her race could understand. I could fit the whole of her in me!

She grew up into a young girl as I grew old and shriveled. She would hug me close and pour out her troubles and I would comfort her  the best I could, soaking in her tears and holding her tight. I was perhaps the last she sought before she turned in and I looked at her all night while she dreamt, her face a picture of calm and excitement, laughter and sorrow, reflecting her dreams. I would carefully collect her graceful brown locks and gave them up only when she insisted.

She got a job.

She met someone.

They made love all night, and I felt perverted. Though I was embarrassed, it was always me she chose to sleep with last, and not him. There was some smug satisfaction in that.

Suddenly, she left.

I was all alone for nearly a year. The cobwebs were my sky and all I saw was the dust grow on the bed and the mites multiply. I grew older and more shriveled by the day- my time was near. I had but one last wish.

Then one day, just as she  left, she returned. A blast of sunlight and chirpy talking woke me up. She was not alone. He was with her. And there was someone else too.

A baby girl.

I looked into her eyes and saw my girl in them, the girl I had loved deeply all these years, the girl who had grown up to be beautiful and elegant and now had her own baby.

My girl and her baby together, one a replica of the other was the last thing I saw before I closed my eyes.

A pillow’s life comes to an end.

 

 

Serendipity, the misnomer

 

 

Sometimes, things happen out of the blue in life, like an avalanche or a flood, or even the sudden lice infestation women so much worry about. They probably have their own reasons for existing. They may even be mere pieces in the great games God is often playing with us, but to the common man and woman, they appear as random occurrences that might arrive like a blast of wind, knock off their hats and leave; but most often result in some kind of epiphany.

The winds were blowing hard that Wednesday. Swara sat huddled in a corner, a petite figure, her newly cut hair outlining her heart shaped face. Now and then she looked up from her book at the clock and brown eyes shining, went back to her book. An hour passed thus and she shut her book and sighed, with the air of a person who has just ticked off everything in their things-to-do-before-I-die list and realized that they were not dead yet. It had been two months since she had come home from university on her summer break, and she had read every book she wanted to, sung till her throat ached, jogged till her thighs screamed and talked till her vocal cords protested.

Born into an orthodox Hindu home, Swara Subramanian had been trained in every art that the society demanded of a Hindu girl, except that of cooking. Her aversion to mastering culinary skills arose from her feminist ideals that she kept safely buried inside her. A woman is not required to cook if she doesn’t want to was her belief, but of course, as she did not want to spend the rest of her life being lectured by every elder in the society, she kept the thought to herself. Instead she spent her time burying her nose in every book she came across, learning to sing, and just existing on the earth. At other times, she logged on to Facebook, looking through updates ranging from “My dog kissed me” to “I am feeling sad” and wondering why she was there in the first place.

It was one such Wednesday when she came across a contest on a Harry Potter fan page. It was about an Omegle hunt.

Omegle, she typed out furiously, and the Google search page (10 million results in 1.5 seconds) showed her it was a chat house for random people. Swara sighed. She wasn’t cut out for speaking to people she had known for ages. Talk about random chat houses.

“Swara… Come help me with lunch kanna”, Swara’s mother called out from the kitchen, using the sobriquet as a mark of affection.

Swara’s mind performed a quick mental calculation. If she helped out mother now, she would surely be called a second time for a similar monotonous chore. Worse, she might like the process, and the little Indian warrior in her who wanted to wield a sword against any and all form of chauvinism wouldn’t approve at all.

“Busy ma…”, she screamed and clicked on Omegle. She would take on random people any day.

Interests?, it asked.

Meh, she thought and left it blank, opting to speak to a stranger she had no common interests with.

After a few milli-seconds, which Swara used to switch on her stereo, she was connected to an absolute stranger.

“Hey… 26 male here!” typed the stranger.

Great. An unemployed person. Which other 26 year old would do this anyway?

“Hello there, 20 female here.”

“Cool, where are you from?”

“India.”

“Whoa, really? That is so cool!”

No, it isn’t.

“I guess… spiritually, visually blah. You get the drift. Where are you from?”

“Canada. And sure I do. Also the land of beautiful women. I’d like to visit someday”

Flattery. For the umpteenth time that day, Swara sighed.

“Yeah well, sure. We may even end up meeting.”

And so it went on. Before Swara knew it, she had discovered that Dave was a student of optometry, which he had abandoned for Psych studies and gone on to join a hospital for children, which he had abandoned for advertising. He loved soft music. And he loved cooking.

That had her hooked, and that was how it all started.

Swara poured out her own interests, and was surprised to find that she could speak to the stran..Dave with no inhibitions. Common sense restrained her from exchanging an email id or a number, but as the conversation proceeded, she found herself enjoying his company more and more.

“So many! Chinese, American, even French girlfriends. Every time, my mum’s eyes roll higher and higher!” typed Dave, when Swara had mildly enquired about his love interests.

Swara smiled, conjuring up an image in her mind’s eye.

“That must have been interesting”

“I wonder what she’d say if I took home an Indian girl”

Swara froze. She wanted to giggle and gulp at the same time.

“I know this escalated quickly for an Omegle chat, but do you want to meet up again?” typed the stranger, when Swara hadn’t replied for a few milli seconds (which she used to gulp down some water).

Hit the disconnect button, screamed her upbringing while the mini swordswoman in her heart pranced about doing a little dance.

“I know, I’d hate not to know you better. We should talk againJ”

And it was done. They devised a devious method by which they could meet each other again in Omegle, where no stranger could be matched twice. At least that is what Omegle thought.

They spoke every day, and soon Swara looked forward to the rendezvous every evening the most. As it goes with such things, it was not long before the inevitable happened.

“So I was wondering… You’re 26 and I’m just 20. Why do you keep coming back?”

“Do you really want to know, Swara?”

She had never been a stickler for melodrama all her life, but Swara suddenly wanted to know. And know very badly.

“Yes, Dave, with all my heart.”

“It’s because I’m in love with a stranger. A stranger I have never seen before. A stranger called Swara.”

There was no milli-second pause this time.

“You have never even seen me, Dave.”

“I don’t need to, I’m in love with the woman in you, and she is smart, funny and beautiful. That is all that matters to me now.”

Swara, the advocate of being single, the hater of lovey-dovey romance, a person who single handedly wanted to destroy people who put up sappy statuses on facebook. Are you really going to do this?

“I love you too” she simply wrote back.

The realization that she wasn’t single anymore struck her as being rather pleasant. She had a boyfriend. Take that, orthodoxy. Both Dave and she realized however, that the relationship wasn’t going anywhere. It would end someday, as a white Jew man had as much chance of dating an Indian Hindu girl as the Titanic had had of not sinking. They agreed to spend their days enjoying the feeling they had for each other, until the day came when they had to finally”disconnect”. Swara still refused to give him his Id and he didn’t persist either.

Swara should have heard the peals, but then, she was literally, blindly in love.

It happened suddenly one day that Dave didn’t come online. Swara dismissed it as nothing of importance, after all, he had to work and he might have been busy. The second day passed thus too. When on the third day, Dave was missing, Swara fretted in a corner of her room the whole day. A week went by. Maybe he was on a tour? Two whole weeks passed before she realized Dave wasn’t coming back.

There was no love story. There was no Dave. Omegle was done playing cupid.

Hoodwinked by a man of 26. Who might not even be 26. Heck, he might not even be a man.

The next day her status update read, “Beware of the internet. It can give you heartache.” She went back to being her old introverted, single self. The swordswoman in her still swung her sword, though with restrain, as if she was apologetic.

In another part of the word, 26 year old Dave, recovering from a terrible motor accident had just managed to get his hands on a computer. He had been bedridden and unable to move a limb for the past two weeks, but he knew his Swara would be there for him, waiting. Breaking into a soft smile thinking of her, he eagerly logged on and waited.

Beware of the internet. It can give you heartache, indeed.