Tag Archives: Love

The Sunday Disconnect

I would rather write about a glorious Sunday. One that we all have painted out and ready in our heads, you know, a pretty little virtual movie with one of those watermarked Audiojunkie happy tunes in the background. One where I sleep in late and wake up to the familiar warmth of the midday sun or the sounds of a busy kitchen or the annoying screaming of kids playing cricket in the streets of a utopian gated community or the crackle of oil and the smell of breakfast or the floral scent of soap from Amma’s morning shower. Whichever happens first. But it is not to be. I wake up early, early for a Sunday that is, and try to remember what it is that woke me up, waiting for the all too familiar gushy feeling of I-have-nothing-to-do-it’s-a-Sunday to spread through my veins and provide the adrenaline to do nothing. I hit a blank. I just woke up, it seems. Outside the window the sun is bleak, looking like it did not sleep very well. Or maybe it just hasn’t reached its full potential yet. I realise all I ought to need is some brisk morning air to wake myself up. I step out into the garden.
The air is still and the ground is wet. It has apparently rained through the night, and this should be a relief. Google tells me today’s forecast for Coimbatore is 34 degrees with a thunderstorm. There’s nothing in there about the calm before the storm though. So much for the high hopes that the cool morning breeze will ruffle me up. The leaves stand in attention and the ants silently make their way up and down the stems, pushing me into a deep existential probe about the similarities between Sisyphus and the Ant. Out of the blue, I decide to sing to the plants. Surely that will wake both of us up? Unfortunately, I am not well informed about the song choices of the venerable Hibiscus rosa-sinensis and start humming Aerosmith’s Dream On . Like I discover, the song does not become humming very much and I growl out the refrain. I swear the plant shudders, and the thought disturbs me more than the fact that I have been unconsciously singing to the beat of the distant barks of a dog. At least somebody’s got their thing going this morning, I think.
I abandon the singing and pick up The Hindu, lying half wet on the porch. The paper boy must have overshot his aim today. It sits there, looking well informed and meaty and a little demonic. If newspapers can look that. It is Sunday and there is Jerry Pinto’s column to read, my mind rejoices. It is about snow. The article is well written, of course, but Pinto’s despondency only adds to mine. The two lines in the entire essay that I can relate to is when I picked my nose and found my finger completely red too, not due to low temperatures like in Pinto’s case, but from when I had dengue fever. That mental image refuses to make way for any more snow imagery and I sigh and give up on the article half way. The Sunday Disconnect weighs heavily upon me.
I trudge back to my room and put on my Sennheisers. The muffs need to be replaced, but my ears love them anyway, like the one pillow you love to hug though it’s not fluffy anymore. I hit play on my phone, and the tune picks up from where it left off.
Kitni dafaa subah ko meri tere aangan me baithe maine shaam kiya. Channa mereyaa..
How often my day has morphed into night waiting for you.
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Closure.

How does one get closure from a love that never was?

Nothing to remember but forget-

one cannot.

How does one move on from a love that was lived

in the head and the eyes and the twitch of the lips?

 

How does one get closure from what was never told

but in sighs only the quietest heart

could hear as lovelorn moans

How does one move on from a past too scared to be

but in dreams of a spirit caged in reality?

 

Shivering nights in the naked breeze

Stars together that smirk and tease

But I

I see the dreamcatcher.

Glossophobia

​May I write to you?

My core processors from terabyte speed

swivel and ruggedly power down

(Like the brazen biker without a silencer

jerking to a stop at the junction)

when I try speaking to you-

Wile E. Coyote out of cliff to run.

May I write to you?

I might forget the avalanche of words

that break off into unfinished textese

(Like the mike at the leader’s speech

betrayed by the blackout)

when I try speaking to you-

Homer Simpson run out of d’oh.

May I write to you?

I’d just like the time you see

To google bits of poetry

Appease your grammar nazi

And stalk your facebook ID.

Then perhaps I shall edge in a word or two

And invite you to a mute date

At the cinema.

Rediscovery

The evening passes in tense awkwardness

of politesse and thank-yous inching around

soul aches and knee touches seemingly oblivious

Until the charade comes to an end

and a simple “Drive?” hangs in the air.

We loop around roads I told apart

Once

by the aging temple, the Gulmohar

in full bloom, the coy stationery

huddled in between, but no more.

They go by, hurt,defiant at being

forgotten. I memorize instead

You.

Your checkered shirt stretched taut across

shoulders that promise respite

The ache to trace a finger across that back

translating to a pathetic, wandering

finger on the strap slung across

and when you shake your head trying to understand

if what boils in you wells up in me

I count the small number of grey hair,

Register the exact tint of your Ray-Ban,

trace the shape of your teeth through the boyish smile-

Only stopping when

I look at the soul shining out of the reflection

of your gaze in the rear-view

And gasp

Terrified to see the same fire in mine

And with an effort that might have

Ousted Atlas’s, wrench eyes away.

I see

the temple, the Gulmohar, the stationery-

they’re all ablaze.

Ode to Reiki the dog

DSC_0185

O ball of fur that rests in heaven
I pray you are in peace
But if t’is true you have lives seven
Come back to this old street.
For Reiki, when we brought you home
Bundled up in blankets warm-
Restless limbs that longed to roam-
Love barged in like a storm.

Happy barks and wagging tail-
Those were days of chewed up mail.

If it is true that dogs can smile,
Yours was perennial grin.
From mangled limbs you slowly grew
To the devil’s lively twin.
For say, is there a cushion new
That bears not mark of your valour?
No place without déjà vu
Of sneezes caused by scattered fur.

Happy barks and wagging tail-
Those were days of chewed up mail.

You joined the pious family of four
In daily prayers and holy bath
Patient, waiting near the door
If only for your share of prasaadh.
I hope in heaven, there is no bath-
And it is still dry and nice
For flash floods are the aftermath
Of your vigourous drying exercise.

Happy barks and wagging tail-
Those were days of chewed up mail.

You did not promise you would stay
For all from earth return
But in double measure, every day
Love for us you’d churn.
Our faithful bundle thus departs
The angels took you away
Another pup we’ll get, and love,
And treasure all the way.

For happy barks and wagging tail-
That’s the way life should sail.

Tiptoe

We had both a fair share of secrets buried deep,
Though woes were shared and souls were bared-
These secrets we did keep.

It wasn’t that we had no trust, we were both very kind,
Though beastly scares had made us one-
We couldn’t speak our mind

All we did was heave a sigh and talk when secrets slept,
And though in sleep our joys awoke –
The secret still was kept

A day came by when finally we had to bid goodbye,
And secrets gnawed at us inside-
Made us look up and sigh

We knew that we could neither say nor part with things unsaid,
Though we had each things concealed-
Our hearts- they broke, they bled.

Depart we didn’t, though fair share of secrets we did keep,
It has been years and we still do-
Locked up in souls them heap.

Sonnet XVII- Pablo Neruda

And whenever my heart should in agony pine

and need to explain incessant craving of thine

love- I turn to find you in the master of soul

Neruda- your letters bind the broken heart whole.

Sonnet XVII

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Pablo Neruda