A whiff of you

I breathed each drop of you

Off my finger tips

off the palm of my hand

Each breath a whiff of fresh

I breathed and I breathed ever more

Until the last drop ran out

I smiled, satiated

Knowing I will get no more.

I think its when I wrote this poem that I at least unconsciously began to realize the obsessive nature in me. I cling to people like a leech...and if I am pulled out..i get breathless and I start sweating and gradually..little by little perish away..

same shit

She sits up and decides to write. a post is long overdue and she wants to type.

She decides not to worry about how her writing is always personal and the protagonist always a ‘she’. But she promises herself that she shall not make it overt and complicated. it has to be simplistic, and hopefully lucid. Her lack of technique and inability to beautify words will not make her write a ‘seemingly’ complicated, grammatically flawed sentence. (Although she could rebuff this as a purist’s accusation right away, she decides now is not the time)

She decides that even though she spells out the most clichéd thoughts and repeat words, it would not stop her from writing. For that matter, even the lack of plot will not make her budge.

If need be, she will write about how her parents are sitting in the other room, and talking about seemingly unimportant things, ranging from the grocery-walah’s banter to papa’s office anecdotes. How their routine life, despite its undercurrents and patriarchal–conservative family narrative, resonates with familial joys and innocent laughter as they take a dig at each other’s relatives.

She will write about how Regina Spektor is singing in the background. As she types she tries to hum along but a note falls and she stops. She cannot sing and being alone in the room does not make her less conscious of the fact. It will also, quite predictably, make her more aware of her lack of talents and unclear (glum?) future.

She is not happy. Not happy with what she is writing and the general there-is-nothing-to-write state. But she will not use the backspace key.

And even as she types all this, she decides that she will not write about her, for she is not real. (Or perhaps, she doesn’t want her to be real.) She cannot be real because she stands out even when things are not about her and fades everyone else into the background even if she merely walks by. And she doesn’t understand this. She most certainly doesn’t.

She wishes this was all a movie. (She partly believes it to be so.)

She sighs, and types some more.

A summer morning in November...

Morning paper

slowly turning fan

sticky neck

dirty hair

yellow teeth

stinking flowers

wrinkled skin

broken armchair

dead

To Blogs

It takes others’ writing, simple blogs and such, to jerk me out of my attempt to over-(complicate/simplify) things. Failure to notice or reflect and complaints about monotony. Pale conversations and brain in a jar. the jar amongst other such tagged glasses. Gooey lumps in different shades of red.
Circa, commas, Chicago Manual of Style and even a banal boss cannot take away from me what momentarily grazed through my mind. And I bounce back with these small excited spurts of being an ‘I’. This ‘I’ lacks courage. Energy breathes in magic-realist memory.

Hence, as I go through the recently updated posts and romance a (writer’s) block, I thank (your) creativity, experiences and words.

A Lice Little Story

Have you ever had lice in your hair?

Have you ever been in love?

Have you ever been in love with someone who doesn't love you back?

Why do I ask?

Simply because unrequited love is like trying to catch lice.

Sorry if sounds unromantic. But there are these moments when you think there it is...maybe he likes you...maybe you can catch it..there..oh..no..he doesn't like you..of course its right there in your grasp...ooops!!!!! It/he's gone..I won't think about it(him)now...thats the last one I try to catch..I won't think of him ever again..until..oh no..just this on(c)e more..
Its a completely futile exercise but that doesn't stop you, does it?

Is it gross?

Holding a pen doesn’t necessitate writing. It doesn’t make a prelude to a story or a song. It doesn’t chart characters or even question their motives. It just creates a space.

And she walks in holding (onto) mirrors. Mirrors which told lies. Mirrors with their own agendas. That one, yes the one with a tie, was too fond of his nose. Aquiline or hooked, it was difficult to tell. But it sat on his face and probably blocked his vision. The one in blue, was always on stage, even when he was in his room confined by his body.

She is bare feet. And as I write this, she tries to pirouette. She was told she is incapable. “two left feet”, or something…. Look at her gliding! Her form, recreated within the blank walls. Distinct. Arms and legs in second position ballet
.
The camera zooms out to place her 8x8 cell in context. A 18, The room with pale green curtains, Second floor, Anne Jude’s Asylum. But, finally, she has a place to dance. And audience cannot stop clapping. “Encore!”. She could die of exhaustion and happiness. But she has no time. She brushes the ruffled hair off her face…
Step. Ball. Change. Pirouette.

To begin. Again

Its Gaurav's birthday today.

These days I often think about my childhood..more specifically the two years I spent in Trishur. I really don't need to qualify that period in any other form. In my life, no other years will be called "the two years".
It could be the rain...it could be the loneliness...it could be the presence of so many mallus.
But basically everything seems to remind me of those days.
The sharp piercing cold damp air on my skin.
Smell of rotting hay and mangoes.
Irritating specks of dirt between toes and the discomfort of water filled boils on a five year old’s tender skin.
Water droplets glistening on green leaves.
Chechis filling one with awe and wonder with their pretty bangles and big girl clothes.
Chettans showing you magic tricks, scars of battles and shortcuts to heaven.
Lonely evenings when everyone decides you are not good enough for them.
Peanuts eaten out of paper cones and evening walks to the children’s park.
Loneliness..loneliness eating out your heart’s core.
Anyway that’s what I have been feeling for the last few days. Terribly lonely. Like a death instinct it drives me away from warmth and solace. I seek it.
I run away from warmth and comfort.
I seek dampness, discomfort.
Warmth gives me a headache.
And I suffer…
Unable to speak
Unable to write
Without knowing the tale
Unable to cry.
Its just an oppressive weight on my soul.
Yet one that in spite of the constant state of excitement it leaves me in, is welcome because it makes me whole…