a blank page

The further I get from it, the harder it gets.

My head is flooded with loud thinking.

My hands are shaking slightly.

No words or too many words?

I need to thaw my tongue.


this blog has been an abandoned space for some time now. I’m sorry. There is a lot I want to say.

 

Advertisements

Mosquito net to save your soul

 

Mosquito net to save your soul
be the fish that wants to trap itself shut
You’re running from a buzz that carries your blood
it’s a shame you need to save your soul
in the dungeons of dreamland, you hide your secrets
where all is lost if you try too hard
you just want darkness so you can shut your eyes
and revel in the colors that come out at night
Mosquito net to save your soul
be the fish that wants to trap itself shut
you’re running from a buzz that carries your blood
it’s a shame you need to save your soul

 

Broken by a mother

Schooling is motherhood and I’ve been broken by my mother.

I was born cautious in the nascent class of 7 ‘B’. I knew how to lie low, how to keep a distance from angry seniors and such who screamed ‘revolution’. I knew how to smile without ever meaning to be friendly, other kids fell for it, just like my own weary self.

I don’t know if it’s apparent but I have a thing for simple people, I always did; for people who don’t understand or those who understand too much. Writing about school is never easy, it’s like wanting to puke and kiss someone at the same time. It’s too much, too little. It’s filled with regrets, things I wish I had done or been, with self-righteous smiles, proud of all the little things that I had the courage to do.

My strongest memories are from my last two years at school – undoubtedly the most difficult. By the end of 12th, I was a broken 17-year-old who’s self-esteem and confidence had taken a hit. From having to come out to myself and my parents while being the apparent ‘good girl’ school had branded me as – it was a match made in Lawrence (a synonym for heaven and hell, I suppose)!

To be completely honest, I was – and perhaps still am – scared of taking a stand, of speaking up, for the fear of being broken. If only I knew then that I will be in pieces regardless of what I did, I’d like to think I’d have done things differently. Sometimes I wonder if anyone could hear how loud my silent screams were, they appeared in the paintings I did in the art room, the songs I sang and wrote, the way I danced on stage, the people I chose to call friends.

Other students had their innocence beaten out of them. It was so damn difficult to navigate the so-called adults’ in Lawrence because they were split into cohorts with completely opposite values (agendas?) and this coexistence of theirs’ was a curse. While one would yell at you for dressing a certain way the other would reassure you that you were doing nothing wrong. BLACK DOT IN THEIR BOOK, HM’S OFFICE,… and the next thing you know – another teacher has resigned. Some of my favorite teachers were the ones who barely lasted a year. And it’s no surprise that most of the obedient ones remained. To add to this, the level of sexism that this place fosters which can apparently be cured by a first time female Head Mistress and a “once upon a time the head girl commanded the parade”, I mean really?

I think it was just too often that the grownups at the high tables forgot that it was for the students that the school was established (though that’s another story in its own right). Lawrence is a conspiracy of silence that survives through humiliation with its head held high, too fucking high, I tell you.

The question that I sometimes asked myself was – who runs this place? The answer as I now understand is – TOO MANY PEOPLE!! Everybody seems to have a say in what’s going on – except the people concerned, i.e, the students of course. And I think I need not explain why the word ‘tradition’ feels so acidic on my tongue now, for it can decompose any argument against the school whatsoever.

But the problem you see is that this is where I learned how to get healed by just looking at trees dancing . This is where I got wet in the cold rain that transports you to where the Nilgiris truly is. This is where I met the man I love so deeply. This is where I first fell in love against myself. This is where I’ve built the most beautiful friendships. This is where I began to sing and write and dance. This is where it all happened.

And therefore the title.

I wrote that letter.

I wrote that letter: a follow-up to my previous poem  “A love poem for a stranger”

I wonder if you know

That it’s me who wrote that letter.

I hope I could seduce you

With that shoddy poetry on a paper.

I might have been a bit too much

But that’s the thing about honesty,

It spills over like water from a bucket.

I hope I could make you feel something,

Something for me,

Or at least my poetry,

That to me sounds like vomit

From the mouth of a sick

screaming disgrace.

This whole affair is strange,

I know,

Sometimes I wonder if you would have written back

If I had given you my return address.

But my courage lasted only till the last

Line of that verse after which I just

Had to finish it and be done.

So I signed it off as J.W, the initials

Of my favorite author,

Hoping to leave an obscure clue

If you might want to find me

And write to me too.

I saw it.

I saw it.

I saw it.

I saw it happen.

Clothes being ripped,

Life being gripped,

And breath being nipped.

But I pretend that

I saw an empty street instead.

 

Who is watching?

Reflections of my insides have

surfaced on the screen

can you see?

They say they are watching

watching me.

watching me from the lenses

of their own encrusted filth

through the filter of human lunacy

Are you watching still?

Watching them bathe themselves clean

watching them eat?

Reflections of your entrails have now

surfaced on the screen

I can see

I am watching you

watching you watch me

metro rides

Date: 7th April 2017

Watching moving cars and trees from the thick transparent glass of the metro had a soothing, almost therapeutic effect on my frenzied brain. “Next stop Shivaji Stadium”, the recorded human voice declared from the speaker buried in some strange corner of the metro walls. I thought to myself – two more stops till I reach home, which is almost 20 minutes, which is quite a lot of time for giving in, to my FOMO and so I slipped my hands into my black backpack and pulled out the book, I had recently been reading. “page 56”, I repeated to myself as I took a moment to stare at the cover: a picture of a red-haired girl curiously gazing at the pebbles around her feet, above her head written in big, ‘Strawberry Girl’. The image of a boat and the ocean surrounded her from either side lifting her figure into the red tinted light of a sky that I can’t completely explain. As my eyes skimmed through pg 56-57 to find the lines where I had left off, a strong smell of Jasmine filled my nostrils. I looked up and realized that the metro had reached Shivaji stadium and a tall middle-aged man with a thick mustache was making his way towards me. His corrosive smell burned into my sanity like a broken bottle of perfume. Not knowing what all that Jasmine scent was doing to me he quickly made himself comfortable in the seat beside me before directing all his attention to the virulent game of candy crush on his tiny screen. Unable to read or move, I just stared at the page until my stop was near. I couldn’t be happier when the voice from the walls proposed that the next stop was Delhi Aerocity. A sigh of relief escaped my lips as I pushed the book into my bag and zipped it shut.

an elegy to lost time.

i miss you or will

it happened quickly

was a slow death

you suddenly stopped looking

you suddenly stopped living

remember the time you

ran around laughing at me

while i cried my eyes out for

someone to find me crying

remember the time you slept

while i waited for when i

would be home again

you were like that always

wanting me for yourself

but you were company

tough company

is it silly that when spelled backward

you emit? because

in your black hole like abyss, I have lost

many lovers and flesh

you were a strange friend

i will miss

in secret bliss

PROMPT 3 – Today I’d like to challenge you to write an elegy – a poem that mourns or honors someone dead or something gone by. And I’d like to ask you to center the elegy on an unusual fact about the person or thing being mourned.

how to make a dead man.

how to make a dead man.

a simple dish it may seem

but the preparations are a bit twisted

to start, take some lost cause and whisk it

till its foamy nature spills over the bowl

in it, you must add some citrus

till it smells of fatalistic detritus

rising up your nostrils like a vulgar mistress

when satisfied, pop a bottle and add some beer

to soothe the sourness, to soothe the sheer smell of vengeance

it is optional, but it sure does soften the tendons

now fill an aluminum tin with the mix

and heat the oven to a tight 250°C for an hour half open

while you wait, you may sip the leftover liquid fix

when the heat is ready, the tin goes in and the hot air takes over

you can now bend your waist and watch the red beam light up like a nova

wear clean clothes and tidy up after

and be back in a few days

to find

a delicacy of rotten flesh and cold skin for you to savor

PROMPT 2 – Today, I’d like you to write a poem inspired by, or in the form of, a recipe! It can be a recipe for something real, like your grandmother’s lemon chiffon cake, or for something imaginary, like a love potion or a spell.