Saturday, December 8, 2012

Echoes of the lotus stalk flute

How many times had we met like this? At airports, train stations, bus stops. Yet, how different was this? This anomaly of separation of time and hearts in the midst of lost suitcases! This severance of bond that you insisted on. That dissatisfaction, of desolate miles between us, that I reiterated. 

Spirits whispered about us once. In my glee I could not keep it in, and you laughed that laugh of a disbeliever. A different time, you say. "That was when we stared at the flickering light-bulb in a mountain-shack and dreamed of a house by the lake." "No, that was when my Tuesday market whims came to you clad in Hindi letters, and beyond-your-years-wisdom arrived to me on the airwaves." That story of ours was woven in songs read by lasers. It cooked on slow heat of your mallet fingers and thawed my perpetually frozen extremities. The indecipherable was spoiled and the decipherable not challenged. 

I banished that whisper, after a while, to a world of "has-beens". You forfeited that nightly banter and beggary of "just two more minutes" to me long ago. I got your voice lullabying me through my insolent sleep for alms, and I kept it. The days were spent in wanderlust and fervent seeking of a purpose. You and I, "we" had become.

The spirits spoke again. You didn't hear it because this time around, they whispered through you and I became your bad penny. I saw again the almost forgotten apricity of your face, the dance of our midnight strolls through streets of your city in your eyes. I saw the slight smile of relief for a moment at the sight of me. And that half minute metamorphosed into the cornucopia of our bond, a belonging we had been longing for, a lifetime worth of peace. Deconstructed was the syntax of the universe and of my being. In that moment I dissolved in your mirth. In that moment I was safe. I was, finally, home.

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Of Halo Errors

My arms ache. Three days of maneuvering a humongous Spanish fan during Flamenco, Kinect boxing, Flamenco again. Kicked some serious butt all three days.
I'm so tired I can't sleep
I'm a liar and a thief
I sit and drink pennyroyal tea.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My parents are worried, as any set of Indian parents with grown ass kids who aren't married usually are. Got an email in the morning a couple of months ago. "Approve/edit the matrimonial ad for the newspaper". Oh man, it's only 7 am. A hurried "Yes, it looks good. Catch you later." My 3 week grace period to recover was over. They "decided" I had to move on. Finally I did get down to reading it.
"Jeez, who the hell are they talking about? This is so generic. I am not (no humility here). They have prided in me being strong and individualistic. Why are they down-playing everything? When did I become pious?"
The ideas parents bludgeon their kids with and the reality, they are hard to reconcile sometimes. I am being marketed as the perfect bride, a concept (utterly flawed one if you ask me- who wants to marry a pious girl?) that would appeal. This is not going to work. I am taking over.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My own private social experiment.
Day 1: The profile's been set up and let loose on the interwebz with help from closest friend (both heart and geography wise). Thank you very much. The name is fake, dark, and only discernible to a reader. The detail is humorous (that's how I roll), but true. No pictures. I know the effects of "gori chitti kudi" on desi bride hunters.
Day 3: Nothing yet. My delightful writing has no takers except for one CatcherInTheRye. Others want pictures, horoscope, stamps, spouse visa. Oh well.
Day 4: Carefully chosen pictures in non-revealing clothes. Not the matrimonial kind though. One is with the Berkeley Rex, the other with my serious chashma. Still not completely giving in, are we? Strong urge to put this one up. Someone would get it. Someone.
Day 5: The inbox is flooded. Seriously? Now, I am even more disillusioned. But, then a friend asks if I judged people on what they read or what movies they watched. "Only all the time, dude". Point well made. I am as shallow. More time given. Let's start talking now. I am bad at small talk. But, if I am going to do this a la "instant coffee", I need everything served on a platter right now. Your dislikes, dreams, whims, passions. I do NOT need to know where your brother-in-law works, what gotra you are (how does it matter which so-called sage's lineage you are from?), or how many MNCs you've worked for previously. Three men, two conversations with each. I am thoroughly confused. Information overload. AY is tickled by the irony of it all. "Maintain a spreadsheet". Oh so hilarious you are! You are welcome for the entertainment I am providing you. But, I am too old, too rebellious, too un-meant for this.
Fortunately, life came in the way. Travel, friends, concerts, retail therapy. Another year completed on this Mother Earth, sparking more anxiety  back home. Watched Nebbou in a movie. Messaged my french hottie on the other coast. Told him I thought of him, "qu'est-ce que tu fais?" sent etc.. He replied saying he misses me ALL the time, looking for a job in San Fran. We haven't talked in THREE years. What the Helvetica? I forget he treats me as his unconquered kingdom, his Waterloo. He's cute, with an accent that weakens knees, physicist too. I've seen women drool over him. So charming, inappropriate, and irresistible all together that I had to subject him to the Good Indian Girl spiel (always handy with the foreign culture card). But then, men who are so aware of their hotness turn piss me off. I was pissed off. 

Anon: "What do you want?"
Me: "I want to possess. I want to be possessed."
Anon: "Kiddo, you are too passionate for your own good."
Me: "Wo jism bhi kya jism hai jismein na ho khoon-e-junoon, kya lade toofan se jo kashti-e-sahil mein hai?"
Anon: "How do you belt out such random shizz on the go?"
Me: "I have this stuck on my cubical wall. I can go Bhagat Singh on you ANYTIME. Besides, as Ma says..shabdon ko mat dekho, tathya ki gehraayi samjho"

For now, I am just excited about the upcoming long weekend (I know it's not a long weekend, it's for me ), the ensuing travel to quench that wanderlust, my people, music and love. As for the experiment, I am exhausted. I like my coffee brewed, percolated drop-by-drop. I can't do this. Shut it down, shut it down! Settle- I never have, and it's not happening in the future. 

Sunday, October 28, 2012

Wicked ways of love

Five stages of loss. They should have happened. I walked out of a well laid out future. They should have happened, right? Moment of clarity, tipping point, or just plain vanilla wake up call, whatever one calls it, but I missed the Denial memo altogether.

Stage 1- Rage. The blood ran. Anger lived. Kept away from grief (Only wets the face and dries up the soul. Mostly unrequited and undeserved).
Stage 2- Jumping out of a plane (Yes, symbolism can be a lot of fun).





Of course many a conversations happened afterwards. Sympathy was offered, empathy sometimes. Most of it largely superficial. "Better now, than later". Some more heartfelt. "Dodged a bullet". And then, I almost forgot about it till an email came my way from his friend to talk about "it". It's acting like a ghoul. Refuses to die. I thought : Thanks, but no thanks. Instead I talked to this other person.I won't use singular pronouns for them. Pronouns have inherent gender and, hence, provoke judgement. "She is a girlfriend, she's on the same team" (the whole "Chicks before dicks" shabang). "He is a GUY. Of course he'll say that to you" (he wants to get in your pants). Let's just call this person Anon.


Anon: "Are you okay?"


Me: "I guess. I have been indulging in some technically fucked-up Haiku. Other than that I think I am fine.

Leather-bound leather heart

I became in his

Contagious leathery hands"

Anon: "Yeah, that was terrible. Read something funny. Wait, let me send some of my positive energy to you. Meditate. Stop eating garlic"


Me (having spent a few hours in the darkness of Kafka abyss): "But, I am insulated. My nerves, they feel no electricity. My arteries are choked. Oh, I am wasted love. And I love my garlic naans"


Anon: "Stop being such a drama queen. Here, listen to Heartbreaker."


And that's all it took. Somehow, Robert Plant (God, my lord, I mean) bemoaning over heartbreak made me feel way better about constantly shattered and superglued back heart o'mine. Okay, it hasn't been broken THAT many times. Everyone saw it coming this time though, except us. It was not faith. It was just naive. Straw man arguments had become our drug.

नैनं छिन्दन्ति शस्त्राणि
Yes, weapons cannot pierce it. But, words do gash and slash the soul (you might as well wear your bib and nibble on it now). We were not ourselves anymore and yet we kept at it. Finally, I had decided to not be part of a binary world of "of use = keeper/ can be blamed = expendable". Apologies, but nicotine is the only vice I can handle for now.

My.. How do I put it? My nicest Ex. He decided to give me some objective, veritable, candid quality time. Passive aggressive- Yes (Thanks for the political incorrectness).Verbal lashing- You are kidding me, right? That's not you.



Well, my love, apparently I did become that.

So having decided to disappoint the said friend of the said habit, I am back to my Rumi. Hopefully, I won't be birthing any more amuse-bouche Haikus. I like my verses longer, more filling, life-giving, not teasing. Anon and I are going to enjoy a few more Proseccos while discussing "their" Gods and my Robert Plant. Impulse is ridiculously underrated and hindsight's a bitch. But, who's looking back?

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Leaving home

This day, five years ago, I left home. I had ceased living with my family 4 years before that. But this, this was almost a renunciation. Left motherland, Ma, Pa, the smell of drenched earth in Monsoon, and everything that was familiar for a... I don't know what it is yet. I don't understand what I was running away from. I could have gotten great education, as good a job back there too. So what was I looking for?


This was written by M and given to me before I left. I have received many a love-letters. Some of them now only serve the purpose of reminding me my hostel's room number with their envelopes. I don't read them anyway. I can not empathize with the feelings of erstwhile me. This I read quite often. May be because M understood me better than most men I met. May be because I felt most hurt when she forsook us and this was the last bit that reminds me of her as I knew her.



No crayons and colors to wish you Happy Birthday
But words may play their vicarious part
So here I go drawing for you
With a little girl in pajamas, let us start.
Papa's pet, and Mamma's ladyship
A little doll sans dolls in her hand
Hiding in nooks and crevices of the ancient house
Breaking through into her own wonderland.
You look for her from dawn to dusk
And she's nowhere to be found.
For she's curled up with a perpetual book
Blind to the outside sound.
Now she's off on another venture
The Discovery of America, the big run
With hugs and kisses, her friends arm her
Bon Voyage they all shout in unison!!!

Wondering as an afterthought

When on the jet plane
Which book will be her companion
What wonderland will keep her sane.


I didn't open it till my birthday that year as I was instructed. And it turned out to be more beautiful a gift than I imagined. Much has been lost since then. Contact, innocence, hope, bits of our hearts and souls, a whole lot of tears. But, I have made my peace with it. I WILL see you someday. Hear this?


Monday, July 23, 2012

अंत


All she left in her vapor wake 
Is the stink of my singed heart and 
The aroma of her sugar and roses

She lived a 100 years. I had not seen her in a long time and she finally lost her patience a year ago. I heard about it from V with hints of distress on the phone. No one was allowed by Dad to display any more. I was all alone here after all. "No mourning allowed if you are alone". So I didn't cry in front of him. I found my solace in her full life(whatever that means), I imagine, of happiness, grief, leaving home, re-establishment, and a painless, peaceful departure.
Death, and it's finality are eternal truths and all other cliches. But, she was a devout Hindu. The finality of a Hindu death is even stronger. There are no promises of meeting again in a different world or a different life. All everyone strives for is Moksha, leaving behind all moh (desires) and maya (illusions). So every time it comes up my esophagus,  I try to swallow it back with some salty water. Nothing will ever make me feel as guilty as not having been with her right then. And it is never going to go away.

Thursday, July 19, 2012

We, the people of India, having solemnly resolved...


Aah, a unicorn!
I found her last year. While we sat submerged in it, she was only dipping her feet in the hot tub. I stared at a few D-cups in front of me. Scared, and a little tipsy. 
"I am hearing things. Am I drunk already. This is only my second". 
"That's true."
"Wow. So, you survived India (quite literally sometimes) without having gone through foeticide, infanticide, child sexual abuse? You weren't beaten up outside a club by our moral custodians? And you want me to believe that you were never even manhandled in public even though you were totally asking for it being inebriated and loose and what not?" 
"I just had a protected child-hood"
"I wasn't particularly on the streets either, you know"
"Hmmm.."


I never thought this day would come. All my confidence in our grand democratic republic is now shattered, and with each falling piece I realize how much I miss the ogling eyes of men (so many men) on the streets of Delhi. While our police, law, and politicians can give KKK a run for their white hats when it comes to prejudices, general junta of the city- the proud owners of the y-chromosomes, are pretty indiscriminate. They would bestow any pretty, young thing with their completely unwarranted attention, no-bias-attached. How, you ask I see. Well, that PYT doesn't even need to be pretty or young. They will grope anyone/thing with a general female form regardless of age, beauty, length of hemlines, state of mind etc. All that equality gave me sniffles any time I traveled in the DTC bus or walked down in "modern clothes". Natasha Smith could have taken lessons on how to feel self-disgusted from any woman in India, instead of feeling wronged. Now that I am safe, it feels weird. The phenomenon of walking in the dark with sudden increase in visual and aural senses' acuteness largely remains inexplicable.


And I haven't even talked about the liberty of thought, and freedom of expression yet. So naturally, I asked a Dude who actually exercised it. "You see all these women with dheela character in the pubs, or for that matter even juice shops? Forget even those, see these women from the north-east, they roam about in Delhi like it is their homestate, with their fiercely free attitude which just screams I need to get some right now. I need YOU baby. Yes, their eyes scream that out." "How do you know? I don't see anyone even looking at you. Are you going to go talk to her?" Obviously the Dude is not going to be bothered with making small talk-shalk. Not like the women can ever say no to him. "And anyway, no is yes said with just eyes." Even in his village adjoining Delhi, all the women present (albeit invisible) at the village meeting voted to give away their rights to own mobile phones or marry with their own choice. Face it, honor killings are just expressions of dissent and disapproval. "Arre, Dhoble and Shri Ram Sena are not the only saviors of morality and decent women. We don't even need these outsiders for safeguarding our women here above the Vindhyachals." Surely, self-censorship is not an issue here. And this is India and not the US, where calling a woman a "slut" for asking insurance cover contraceptives on the radio would in any way be penalized. Women are killed for much less here. Freedom of expression for the win!


If you thought that unity in pluralism was a mere political rhetoric for grandiose thumb-waving in front of Pakistan and to keep Rahul Baba in business, think again. Through the ranks, the urban and the rural, the elite and the masses, everywhere the thoughts fuse together to form a beautiful harmony. Screechy altos or coughy tenors will simply not be tolerated. These men would put frat brothers, from party schools here, puking into each others mouths to shame. They stand together and stay silent together. So lest you want to lose a life or limb by interfering if a girl is being molested or paraded naked in full public eye, be like Gandhi ji's bandars. Better still, go get a camera to record it all. The entire charade afterwards is so wonderfully choreographed that it goes exactly the same way EVERY time. The cops say the loose woman asked for it. The media screams "no fair" and insists on asking people on the streets. People blame law, society, and indulge in some social-media activism (of course no protocol followed).  All this while the Fab India saree clad representative from National Commission for Women hides the woman's face and ensures her own matching pearls are seen clearly on the tele. One needs to give the judiciary due credit though. With half the laws for women not codified for they fall in the realm of religious freedoms and the other half just plain shitty, they fall back on known guidance of choice wherein lie the eternal truths. So where a Muslim woman can be divorced anytime with no rights whatsoever, a Hindu woman can be completely denied inheritance from her own father's property (Oh might I remind, she was also not given any dowry because it's against the law). In cases involving fuzzy logic (ha) a judge may look at Ramayana and decide that the wife should follow the husband wherever he goes. Umm, except Rama was a crappy husband (yes, Uma Bharati, I said that). So if you are gonna be damned if you do and damned if you don't, you might as well do.

Thursday, March 1, 2012

Gypsy soles, wondrous souls

Six months too late, but here nevertheless. Featuring my beautiful (first too) Moleskine. 


Florence, Italy. 2011.



Venice, Italy. 2011


More to come soon. 

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Dilli

चार साल की मिठास से थकी हुई ज़बान पर नमक की तरह है
झुलसाती गर्मी में चले जाने वाले बादल के साए की तरह है 
बस घर है
तसल्ली तब भी कितनी है