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.

I once had a boy.

Scrawny and shorter than usual, his genius reputation entered the room a few seconds before he did. There have been afternoons where his presence was too overbearing for a girl of only 17. Afternoons that wore out my thumbs pressing the keys to type to him; stories. Afternoons I spent trying to walk through the musty roads of Bombay to not remember his face anymore. Every other song was our song but lyrics faded in the recollection of us. There were afternoons that I could have spent with my physics tutorials, but instead I wrote letters to him. Now every question about my stoic existence comes back to him and especially the sentence; I once had a boy.
I don't anymore but that doesn't bother me as much as the feeling that one fine day I will begin to say this sentence and you will call me and tell me that I was wrong.
I will walk the streets again that day.