Paradis

Time and motion fade past us without leaving any residue as the five of us huddle.

Someone coughs and the rest keep looking at the only bottle of water as it gets passed on, slowly, steadily and hopefully I think, towards me. The stone washed jeans of his no longer distract, even though by now I've lost track of the initial conversation about just another incident that I couldn't be very curious about. I  limp around, my head light and dangling slightly from side to side like old men and the lines around my mouth darken, deepen. The realization that I may be looking a wee bit like an Alzheimer's patient makes me sit up straight and fix my smile to something more sober, or less suspicious.

The weather smells of soup, about to pour any moment onto the mat I just cannot move my legs up from, as his faded jeans distract me again, drawing me out from the indulgent drops of the Heavyweight track the rest are playing. By now the pangs in my stomach have gained a little more recognition from my attention but I don't care. I move my eyes swiftly from the skinny knees stretching the fabric of his jeans, upwards to his shiny chin. I regain, sit up straight, stop dangling and turn slowly towards the rest. Creepy, I think; stop being creepy.
As the rest of the evening passes by me within minutes, my chest has lost it's creases and nothing is worrisome any more. At long last it starts to drizzle and I feel my left palm leave the caresses of my body to be beneath each dollop of a raindrop.

Everything is wet now, the laptops taken away as he begins another fit of laughter, his glassy eyes not opening any more and mine not registering the raindrops in between. My stomach grinds as my head throttles with the exuberance of the fit, at times so strong that my lungs forget to open, my ears able to hear the throbs of either my brain or my heart, I can't tell. Strong sighs follow its end and then some silence. Everything is calm now, a happy calm, the one you want to keep for the rest of your life but I stand up anyway. The pangs inside my stomach have coordinated with the pangs inside the others. 


As my wobbly legs finally retire to their fate of bearing my weight again, I take a final look around the easy edges of the tiled terrace, glad to have traveled to see a sight so incredibly ordinary.
Except today, it's not. 
My sweat now hides and my tangled hair brushes past my face with the breeze; today it's lovely. 
And Bombay looks beautiful. Not unbearable, not fast, not polluted, just beautiful.

(Apparently now I have to mention this is inspired fiction.)

Error404. Repeat.

This feels like the beginning and the end at the same time. Like the chilly wintry mornings of the 27th of December, after the birthday jubilance has faded. I feel stupid for the time gone by, having fallen for the exact same things. At the same time, smarter. There are days like these that make me want to count the number of benefits that arrive out of detachment. Maybe that's why Buddha looks so happy all the time. Every year on the morning of the 27th of December I promise to be more detached from meaningless, capitalist conspiracies and yet every year I make the exact same mistake of forgetting. There is something about the month of December. It starts out with giving in to everything that gives you weak knees and ends with you, alone. Again. Its like betraying your cause, all the rules you made an exact year ago, that 27th of December.



Except, this is summer. And today is June, the 13th.
And HEY, I've already been through this shit this winter.
Well, fuck.

Not your's. Truly.

I write a sentence. You write two.
I ask for consolation. You talk about your failures.
I always begin. You are never ending.
I mostly sit. You prance but never at me.
I tell you that I don't mean a thing I say. You tell me you don't either.
I cut the line. You go astray.
I want to talk. You want to scribble.
There's two of us and then two of you;
I'll make movies, you make stew.


p.s: Have you noticed how I don't make much sense any more? Also, one of my poems (if you can call it that) 'Cider from the Old City' is getting published in a book/publication called Inspired By Tagore and is being released by the British Council this May. Sadly, I wont be able to attend the launch. Nothing big as such. 

Thakuma'r ghoogni.

I secretly tried to count the number of medicines in that ruffled plastic bag. Many. Many more than many. Too many, infact. Too many for a lady.

I sit there with my cold drink as her wrinkles mould her face and she tells me of the things old age does and the suffering it brings. I've always missed out on social cues.
But this one with
her frail hands in the air,
her pallid sari falling lightly on the pockets of fat sitting on her elbow,
her diluted cold drink with it's inconspicuous fizz shivering,
and her mouth mumbling;
something about how she doesn't get to see her son anymore,
or how she may never see her weak brother in Bombay again,
how everyone she knows is slowly dying.
This one;
I just have to sit,
stir my Cola
and force myself to count the number of years I still have, to reach her age.

Too many for a lady.

My head hurts from thinking too much.

Notes

for 

self:

foolish

foolish

girl.

How

easily

(ba

si

ca

lly)

you 

fa

ll

for

warm

colours

and 

some

gr

ass.

no

mind of

your

own

and

always

pester

ing

(ba

si

ca

lly)

annoying

to

get

at

tension.

you

(sm

all)

thrown

away

child,

you.

Now 

sl

ee

p,

before 

this

gets 

worse.

Don't sue me, E.E Cummings, you are dead.

Remember those Goo Goo Doll days?

Dear Jo,

As accustomed as I am to the ICSE way of beginning a letter with the usual 'It's been long', or worse, CBSE's 'I hope this letter finds you in the pink of your health' format, I thought these opening words wouldn't count for you since you are slightly more special in ways I can't explain. Plus, it's not really been THAT long since the last time I called you, last month. Considering the frequency of our conversations, I shouldn't really be writing a letter so soon. The once in 3 months update works perfectly with me. It is only on a few, rare days that I think my day and my situation could easily be sorted with your wisdom and grace and hence I must resort to writing to you; I miss you extremely. I am not upset, hurt or angry but I am afraid on an oncoming emotional dependency, if you know what I mean. I think things may change in the next few months so bear with my cheesiness and nostalgic updates, as you always do. The news about Aanchal Maam was really upsetting and that day I just wanted to be around you to talk about the ways we were mean to her. Anyway, all the personal talk can happen when you get to Bombay and we are hot and sweating and melting but otherwise still the same, on the same old beach, with my same old slippers and your same old Black-currant Gola. And we'll talk about all the things that are bothering me now, but wont then because we'll have a logical solution that will pwn all the statistics and facts. Also, even though our lives have changed greatly and that I may be immensely jealous of you, I think you know that nothing can really compete with our friendship. Write to me, when you can.

Looking forward to another summer with you on the beach,
A.

Magar, agar, lekin, phir kyu?

I search for a face like your's
in my family,
on the roads,
in the gardens,
on the commode,
beside the scooter,
beneath the blanket,
inside my wallet,
over the beaches,
underneath the trench coats,
surrounding the bungalow walls,
in between old nails,
beside the dosa alleys,
within my needle set,
on top of the birthday caps,
swinging with the clothesline;
beguiling,
surpassing
all
my
device.
Such is,
my
deep;
crevice.