Do you remember when we couldn't any more?

Do you remember when the turtles crawled up the ceiling , hanging upside down,

Milky Way gleaming on their shells?

Our own giant stars, they were.

And that one time when you placed a drop of rain on my osmotic throat,

You thought it'd quench my perennial thirst.

All it did was make my insides drier.

When, once, lilies grew in the tumultuous winds

Their petals spinning in spirals.

We were sucked into its vortex, floating in the low pressured center.

Or the time when the clouds caressed my body and you hated them for it?

When we walked carelessly on crunchy snails on the forest path

And the pitter-patter of the rain became an ominous growl.

Was it the snails getting back at us? Or the Gods?

I don't feel gods under my feet, 

I feel only snail squash, and it makes me jump.

I believe in snails, 

Soft and hard

Linear and curvy

Fallible, squashable.

Who can believe in gods?

Infallible, unsquashable.

So unreal, so unlike us!

Waiting in vain?

Sometimes happiness wears you out too. Some days, this inertia, borne out of satisfaction of mere existence, is (weirdly) just enough. I sleep well. I have almost forgotten how to be bluesy (much to the chagrin of my Flamenco teacher). On other occasions, I try to shake my insides for an ounce of any emotion other than glee, to feel something else. Not sadness. Longing, may be, for the summer rain, or for my father's arms. But, I seem to be fine with windy days, sunny skies and perpetual company of me. Then, one hour ago, I found her. I am still figuring if it's too early to be obsessing already. No I am not. I am dancing to her divine voice. It's past midnight. I'll be dipping my fingers in paints soon. I long to lay down on the wooden patio of the shack with him under a billion blinding stars, smelling cold air and thick coniferous cover. The lassitude ebbs away.

Oh Hindi Zahra, your wine-stained mouth is beautiful and, might I add, oddly inspiring.

You and I

In this caffeinated world!

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.

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. 

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?

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?