Dreamcatcher

My thoughts meander
In first person
Through geometric patterns
Woven with dreamy glow

I am the centre of the culvert

Which bends towards you

And then disappears behind

A foliage

Of ugliest brown

Vintage solitude.

I am the incline

Of the scale

Which refuses to measure

Your lengths

In my breadths

And the hypotenuse of

Long dead human concern

Longer than the sum

Of your lengths in my breadths.

I am the radius

Of the ellipses

Which dot the ends

And enjambments

In all sentences

Phrases

Murmurs

I create and destroy

Within the haven of

Illuminated text boxes.

I am the angle

Between my desire

And your swollen ego

Acutely aware of the

Obtuse notions

You straightened in your head

At quarter past nine

Over an empty flute of wine.

I am the point at which

Reality blurs

Into forcibly conjured dreams.

Nightmares of your departure

Touched by the feathers

Of my dreamcatcher.

You left.

Nightmares left.

I am the circumference

Around the dreamcatcher

Swaying without a centre

Missing Pieces

Puzzles need

Empty spaces

Like cases

To keep congruency alive.

And so, my life

Thrives

On your admissions of loneliness.

I fit into the crevices

You leave bare

And into instances

You forget to share.

The pain that numbs you

Gives me reasons to live.

I align to your latitudes

I fill your missing pieces

With multitudes

Of what they call mortal sins.

I entwine my luck

With the empty spaces

Between your fingers

And what lingers is

Nervous comfort in your eyes.

I languorously chew

On the smoke 

Burning your subterranean ideals.

The fluidity for which I aspire

Then conspires

To stop the cauterization 

And attempt a dousing.
I'll still be the banks

Once this river has flown through. 

Selfish, coveted

Stolen, even as you resisted

It fills you

As it fills me

With an emptiness

Of a special kind

Leaving a hole

Difficult to find.

I served my destiny.

You fulfilled yours.

Murakami and Melancholy

Some pieces of literary brilliance fill you with so much despair that you are literally waiting to burst open with all those shrivelled packets of unhappiness you had locked away long ago. This obnoxiously long first sentence only goes onto perfectly display the amount I was holding back, till I turned over the last page of Haruki Murakami's Norwegian Wood. And then, despair took over. A kind of sweet melancholy which does not make you cry, but leaves you eternally ponderous.

Thanks for a lovely Secret Santa gift Shweta!

Many call Norwegian Wood a love story. Few others a loss story. How, however, is it so simple to classify a novel which is a deeply moving reflection on all that ails us as humankind. Each character, painted in poignant detail, is a model of damage which many people suffer over many eras in life. The central character, Toru Watanabe, has a lot riding on him. He is the unifying factor in a story which seamlessly sews together damaged, fragmented, suppressed and even deranged psyches. Norwegian Woods is a love dance played within the psychological space of different individuals united with this deep sense of melancholia.

Imagine eternal winters taking over the heart of people - this is what Murakami's simple tale narrates. I say simple consciously. Simple is what this book is. Simple in language, in style, in thoughts, and it is this simplicity which tugs at your heart with a passive force binding you to the pace of the lives of Toru, Naoko, Midori, Reiko, Nagasawa and even Hatsumi. Far too many deaths in the book only add beauty to the narrative. Like that was even possible.

Haruki Murakami

This is not a review, yet it is important to spell out that Toru Watanabe was in love with his childhood sweetheart, Naoko, who came with historical and psychological complications. His relationship with a reticent and implosive Naoko is a contrast to his companionship with Midori - an outgoing, verbose, crazy-but-endearing girl, who is also a model of emotional strength. The exploration through the relationships with these two very different females is an exploration of Toru's character, which I found torn between a promise of valorous love and the reality of a  sensually satisfying affair. Nowhere have I seen a more wonderful elucidation of the physical mutating and shaping the psychological and emotional realities of a person. Murakami has accomplished this in nerve defying detail.

I was recently sharing with a close friend, how this novel revealed to me that sadness can be titillating too. Their is a heavy dose of wintry sorrowful sensuality in Murakami's prose. Sadness appears to be the most defining, the most basic, and the most unifying of human emotions. So much, that you want to touch feel it, touch it, lie down with it. Make love to it too, perhaps.

The spell of the book can cause this spiel to continue. I must put a stop though, since Mitch Albom beckons me after this.

A parting message - the impact of the book was so strong that it led to a need for discussion. While much of it happened over whatsapp, a twitter property also came into being, called @LitColl, short for #LitCollective, under which tag, I will be hoping to discuss some literary concepts with you all. Care to join?
 

A Heady Brew - Love Cracks You Open

Love cracks you open.

This dawned in a dilapidated nook of SDA market, where I sat with a listener and seeker, a few weeks ago. Silent nooks fascinate me. I look out for deserted and underutilised spaces, which allow themselves to be owned. Habitation and laughter are fond companions, for those who can afford them, including inanimate spaces. And who is to say that the lifeless do not dream of life and laughter? I mean, what if the same nook now dreamt of being in the company of some lively youngsters each day, who hug like its their last meeting, and who laugh like they are the rulers of the world? Dreams, alas, are creatures of discomfort and desires. I don't plan  on going back to the nook anytime soon.

Source- hdwgo.com

But I do plan on going back to the 'cracking' phenomenon of love, rather hastily. You see, this post is one of the more oxymoronic and moronic in general, the way it is forming inside my head. Like a heady brew, if ever any was fermented in my mind. I love taking risks which are emotional in nature, but at a detached distance. Is it even possible, you ask. Well, in a strange, convoluted way, it is. I am not entirely capable of explaining this, but this whole life is going to be a series of trial and error episodes. Let this one be no different.

Safety is inconsequential and antithetical to love. I believe. Love is the greatest of risks, most potent of shocks and the ghastliest of desires. Initially, of course. As you grow in love, and as love grows inside you, you keep getting fragile - ready to act, react, respond, retract on the expectations of who you deem the centre of your Universe. The problem, my dear, is that there can only be one centre of the Universe - either you, or him/her. Yes, there are instances of two stars revolving around each other - but the gravity of one is always greater than the other.

We have no yet evolved to become such stars who have learnt to revolve around themselves. So, when love makes you fragile, and when hurts caused in love crack you open, you suddenly are lost and livid, and you have no idea what to do, except to curse the notion of love in full and plenty. And some more. As love ebbs in your system, because other, antithetical emotions are brewing stronger, you become constrained and passive, and you assume that to be a permanent state. Because you do not want to crack anymore. Because you think that any further cracks are going to be the death of you. Because you assume you are that brittle.

Only, my dear, you are not.

I am not.

I hate saying these confident sentences out loud, because somehow, the Universe always assumes that I am challenging it. It them employs rose-tinted trickeries to crack me a little more, but now, I am beyond the point of fear. Yes, when I will love too much, I will fear enough to be on the verge of breaking apart - but hey, has there been devised any other way to love intensely than to be attached to the point of mayhem? Can you truly be in love without walking long enough to forget the road which brings you home? And will you not give any and everything for even shreds of those dream sequences which bind your ordinary life to almost surreal heights of pleasure?

The point is, simply put, that love cracks you open. And while doing that, it brings you the closest to yourself. When it has to, let love enter you from all crevices, because, let me tell you, it won't last. This intensity which makes you ride to the point of brittleness, it won't last. The memory and nostalgia of it will - and that will kill you. Try and forbid that from happening, and you are good to go. You possess love, even when you don't possess the object of your love.

I reiterate.

You possess love, even when you do not posses your beloved.

Well, then, enjoy the cracking up!

Source - rhymeswithmagicart.blogspot.com

Aadat

Aadat ho
Haqeeqat bhi.

You think it false
When I say that all
I care for
Is you, and your pulse.
When I think to care
Means to be fair
To you and to me.
I'm used to you
To the idea of blues
Cherished sitting in your arms
Wooed by your charms
By the sweat on your palms
Which you run on my skin
Mixing salt with sin
Scarring salinity with the romance of ittar
To conjure a smell
Which I can tell,
Is yours, only.
You're a perfumed reality
Fast evaporating in fumes.
The scent, is on my skin
Even if you no longer are.

Aadat ho
Zaroorat bhi.

You're the rum in my coke
The haze in my smoke.
I need you, to go above
The ordinary scape of fizz
I need you, to attain
A state higher than black mist.
I want to linger on
As a bitter aftertaste,
On each tongue that sips,
The sips which scalds the throat.
And all that lies below
In my being
When seen
Staring at you
I am actually drinking through
The intoxicating fizz
I need you like rum
I need to drink you like a hum
Of that trickling elixir
Not off a goblet this time
But off that which rhymes
With lust, and convoluted, undivided, manly love.

Aadat ho
Qayamat bhi.

You can put me off alcohol
But can you put me off you?
You know you're the more potent
Of the two?
Your half open button
Second from top
Reeks of terrains unfulfilled
Of lustful glares
You'd not want to stop.
You're the terror
I abide by.
You're the disaster
I don't know why
I am giving in to
Losing in to
In a dim hope
Of finding a home
Which I know wouldn't last
You're the transitory glory
Of a love spell, now un-cast.
You'll destroy the derived
You'll unmask the perceived
You'll terrify the belief
And you'll break,
The porcelain idol
I had made
With all affection vital, and
Cherished for so long
In my heart,
Like a song,
Negating all wrongs
As if you were the only right
Right as only right can be right.

Aadat ho
Shikaayat bhi.

White faces
Sombre gazes
Tricky steps
Stable embraces
And then a distracted facade
A fragmented visage
A throbbing mirage
Pumps me out
For the want of a future
Who am I, after all,
but a present wound's suture?
Like you have her,
I have him
But you're the whim
To whose wishes
I dance, and prance, on a foot
By now you must've understood
How you're a complaint
Of derangement
Lodged in my head
But I lose sense of indignation
As you begin
Warming
My bed.

Aadat ho
Meethi se karwat bhi. 

The pretty you
The cunning you
The cute you
Then arches his back
With a shuddering climax
And turns away
Like it's a day
In his world
While I battle with dark
And stark
Contrasts
Between him
and Myself
The little elf
Of lust
Stifles the angels of love
As I count the blemishes
On your back
The spots black
Now my objects of affection
For your face eludes
And deludes
My overpowered mind
My powerless mind
Seeking one embrace
One gaze
Which tells me you are here to stay.


Aadat ho
Bagawat bhi. 

Each time I fight
For you
I fight for myself
Out of the haze
Out of the smoke
Of disenchantment
Which blows
On your pristine countenance
And my slurry speech
You're more precious than rum
Than a brook's hum
As it scales mad topographies
To pass out in the arms of an ocean
You're one
Of them
You're one
Of me
You're one
Of you
You're one
Of us
As I cower to the buzz
Of your disapprovals
I give in
To you. To a love true.
And to a lust truer
Than your and mine existence.
You've turned me a rebel
I listen, un-listen,
Pretend, apprehend,
Fade, descend,
I turn depression into a trend.

All for you,
For the idea of you,
For the habit of you.
I know not you
I know this habit, craving, longing
I know the pain in my heart
I know the belonging
I don't care who you are
As long as you are. 
You're a habit, once I cannot let go.

Photography - Shubhrangshu Chakravarty

What The Stars Know And I Don't - Part II

The Chamber

Jasmine spread its shy aroma
On my bosom,
Lying like a snake
Coiling around my heaving chest
Strangulating my breath
As his faced appeared
Piercing the translucence
Of curtains
Preserving my dignity
To be shattered like glass
The moment he set foot in my chamber.

Like ambers,
My heart burnt.
He carried the promise of vermillion
A splash of red on my forehead,
Inked my life
Made me his wife
To love, honour, consume and destroy.

I stood trembling,
As his fingers traced the contours of my body.
I was titillated, in places I knew not existed
On the uneven topography of my body.
Is this how the Earth feels each day the Sun kisses it with golden rays?
Is this how a lone tree feels when under the influence of wild winds it sways?
Is this how tremors of joy erupt in on silent terrains?
Is this the experience which makes a woman turn vain?

Like Shakuntala basking in Dushyanta’s gaze,
Like Sita glowing through Rama’s face
Like Vasavadatta conjured in Udayan’s dream
I lay fulfilled in my lover’s embrace.

I looked outside the window, as the sky turned a shade darker, and stars turned a touch brighter. Tell me, o stars, can I continue this love-play till eternity?

Painting by George Astametakis

Part one of the post can be read here.

I Steal From You (I Steal You)

I steal.
I steal you away from your laptop
Into whose glare you fish
For the strained brightness
And aspired automation of dreams
Only, you understand them wrong
Dreams aren't used to automation.

They are built from the romance

 Of exasperation.

Of figments you inherently know

Are not yours to live and die with.

Dreams are what I have
Which steal shreds of reality
Into a make believe world
Where you're not endlessly staring
Into your painfully flawless machine.
But my eyes.
Just my eyes. 

(My once brown, then golden eyes.)

And then in my being.

I steal.
I steal from you some touches.
Cheap, you'd think.
The problem, my dear, is,
Each time your bump into me
Or your hand brushes my arm
Or you casually tousle my hair
A million tremors assail my skin
And that which lies deep within.
Your innocent touches
Embolden me
To plant deliberate caresses
On whatever of you
I wish to consume.
You might not know
But my head resting on your shoulder
Is the least innocent act
My mind can conjure.

(While I am at it, 

The pain of my thoughts,
Only heaven may endure.)

I steal.
I steal you away to the moon
No less.
And there, I force you
To force me
Into violent, cheesy lovemaking
With six time the passion
And one sixth the weight.
You lie light on my chest
Even as your heavy breathing
Pretends to cover
My uncovered, undiscovered lust..

Did you hear the sonorousness?

Of a heart learning to fly

And cry again? 

The taste of the tears

Is like a jolt into reality

As if salt existed

Only to scratch and wound the stealth

I employ

To gain you. 

I steal. 

I steal to realise

What I stole from you

Belonged not to you

In the first place. 

I steal to erode moments

Off MY limited life span

Placing happy packets

Full of airy airs

In fancy showcases

Of a humongous villa

You and I built

In a stolen moment of intimacy. 

These happy packets

Would burst and cackle

And bring down the villa. 

The only pain of which

Could be felt in my heart

(While you'd continue to stare

And pester for automation of dreams.)

I steal.

I steal but fail to realise.

If I am cheating you,

Or slapping myself a challan

(Calculated in time and heart units)

For yet again jumping

The danger signal

And stepping on the desire path

Through sylvan silks

Leading to the lake

With enough water

To drown me proper. 

In the world of metaphors,

No theft goes unrewarded.

But love does. 

And so, the lover in me

Will continue being a thief,

With loot

Than being a lover

With love cut loose. 

PC - lizkapiloto (etsy)

What The Stars Know And I Don't

The Lake

Beseeching
I look at the stars
Twinkling as scars
On the dark landscape of my memory.

Screeching
My words in my ears
Mere seconds converted to years
From the time you left me.

Pleading
My heart to for his love
For the heaven above
To pull aside the curtain of fury.

Feeling
The arrogance turn to dust
The soul poised to burst
Into a million shreds of agony.

PC - Mohit Tyagi

I sat alone, alone with the stars, remembering the tick-tock of his steps hurrying out of our house. The tick-tock of his leaving resonated till much later in the sounds of the clock. Time serves as a reminder of his love and my envy, his embrace and my pride, his loyalty and my doubt. I’m sitting, sitting along, gazing at the stars, to spot a speck of his reflection.

I know not where he is. Probably the stars do.

Kitaabon Sa Rishta - Part III

Woh yaad hai,
Aur woh yaad bhi hai.
Yehi toh ruyon se jhagadta purana sweater bol raha hai
Woh kuchh toh afwaah hai
Aur kuchh raaz hai
Laut-ti sardiyaan aas-paas phusphusa rahi hain.
Sard raatein maano ki yaadon ka kaarvaan hai
Phir chai ke pheekepan ki bhi toh apni zubaan hai
Jo gehri-kaali pyali se jhaank kar
Subah ki kirno par ankhein moond leti hai
Kitaabon par gaadhi syahi bhi ab
Dhundhle lafzon mein yaad sikod leti hain
Aaya toh tha na?
Aake gaya bhi tha na?
Ya is aane jaane ke khel mein
Kuchh toote-bichhde se mel mein
Bas ik chhalava tha?
Pyaar ka dikhava tha?
Kuchh toota dil
Kuchh tooti main bhi
Ek raasta woh dhoondhne aage badh gaya
Ek raasta main takte peechhe chhoot gayi

Picture by Aaqib Raza Khan

PS - This is the third in the series of a 4 part poem. You may read the first and second part on the links mentioned below.

Kitaabon Sa Rishta - Part I

Kitaabon Sa Rishta - Part II

A Starry Sky

An hour ago I cried
At the thoughtless thoughts
Of my mindless mind
And incessant buzz
Of crude connections
Wired and wireless
Which firmed up and fractured
Into a dozen cracks
Now visible in creases
Ageing around my eyes.

Eyes, eyes have water
Not tears, but water
Pure, watery water
Flowing in frenzy
Down and out
As if gravity were a better friend
Than I could ever be
As water flowed out
Memories settled in
Calm gathered,
I scribbled a message of hope
And hope sure is sinless sin.

Sin was it.
To love and be loved.
Then tear and be torn
Into a million stars
Which now light the darkness
Of this ephemeral, and eternal
Existence.

Existence is a starry sky
With dark as its cloak
And night as its cradle. 

Pic Credits - @TheWishingChair

Erased

Part I - Unwritten

Part II - Rewritten

Part III - Erased

It rained today. It rained all over my story today.

It rained with ferocity. I witnessed the mad love making of rain and wind cast gloom and bliss together in the city. I had a crazy schedule and a dozen tasks to finish in remote corners of the city, but I knew to which centre my day would converge. By six, I had to be where I was yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. The first two days I spent beside the green water of a still lake, located within a bubbling hub of urban jabberwocky, were what enticing aromas of Earl Grey were made of, or what the smoky seduction of his piercing gaze was made of. The third day made the Earl Grey go undrinkably cold. It also made smoke smell like the irritation that smoke is.

I had first met him at this secluded, pretty spot beside the lake, flipping the pages of his little green diary, throwing down velvet caressed words as impalpable ripples on unbelievably still and lifeless water. His words were what he was made of. His expressions - casual, yet precise - were his weapons of choice to illuminate a moment by voicing them, or sadden the climate by withholding them. I loved listening to him - to whatever he said. So, when the next day, he was reticent (but charming as hell), even the usually garrulous girl in me felt it pressurizing to be the one talking. I could clearly not think myself saying anything half as worthy as the lamest thing that came out of his lips. I would have loved to speak the language of silence with him, but he did not know I had already been doing that since the first hour we spent together, and I did not know how to actually make this language known to him.  I was with him in my mind, and, I had a feeling, he was with himself, in his own.

I walked back to the same spot beside the lake yesterday, but he was not there. It felt odd. I walked on, sat down there, opened my diary, and scribbled whatever I remembered of the earthy countenance of his. Amicable, and inscrutable dwelt beautifully within the features which now seemed distant. I had his number, hesitantly yes, but I called. No answer. And so became the trend for my next eleven calls made over several diurnal and nocturnal hours. I slept with the trepidation that he has disappeared on me - my chance at poetry had disappeared on me. Today, amid a hectic schedule of dry powerpoints and dull meetings, I managed to find time to be fearful and indignant at the same time. How could he disappear on me?

Braving rains now threatening to be violent, I reached the same spot today as well - but he was not here. How could he be - it was raining, right? But then again, he was not here, or anywhere around. Drenched, I smiled helplessly, and leaned across to the same place where his hands had caressed mine. His fingers, rather boldly, had then curled around in a firm grip - the embrace of gestures ever so natural that I had failed to notice it till I actually did. I did not feel coy, I just lived.

Today, I felt raindrops run in a ticklish path down my neck - and I sat down, wishing, if that tickle could have been caused by him, his words that touch. He could not have been here in this downpour - I was mad to think that. But I was here in this downpour - mad enough to do that.

He was glorious, sure, but undecipherable still. He was beguiling, yes, but unwritten still. He gave names to feelings I had not felt since ages, but he demanded to be erased now. He was my chance at poetry, but probably I was not his. At some core, insistent, crying part of ours, we all want to be written, but while I was writing him, probably he was sketching someone else. To think again, I was writing him, and I was sure he was writing himself. And it hurt. Hurt enough to make me calm.

I walked away, drenched. I will probably come back here tomorrow, when the sun would be up there, winking at the lake. However, I will not forget him not being here when it rained, and when it was dark, and when I was alone, searching for even the tiniest reflection of his. He will probably be back here, but he will not be back here.

As I said, it rained today. It rained all over my story today.

Clicked by Aaqib Raza Khan

Hurriedly Scribbled #2

This one is a little late, but since my blog crossed 8,00,000 views a few hours back, today's countdown post is very much in order.

So, if someone were to ask you, what was the one thing you discovered in the year of life which just went by, what would you say? Really - its a question to which you must write an answer in the comment box below. What I want to see is if you can actually stop at scribbling one thing down. In an entire year, one could discover so much about himself, about life, about people. Can there actually be that one, overpowering thing which towers above all the other experiences of life, establishing itself in a position of dominance, from where it stands a chance of influencing and shaping your life?

As is apparent, I asked this question to myself. I often do, but I wake up to different answers. As of today, my answer would be, that the 24th year of my life was significant because it was in this time period that I discovered feminism. I am not sure if my discovery was related to unearthing a mini-feminist sitting crouched somewhere inside me, but I have definitely become more sensitive to the misogynistic strains which permeate the air we unconsciously breathe. Honestly put, its troublesome, to see how stereotypes relating to gender and sexuality are just accepted without challenge, and to find yourself become sensitive and reactive to them. Its an honest admission. I reckon I was better off when I could laugh at those of my ilk when others chose to make a joke out of them. This day, I cannot. I don't get messed up with anger, but rightfully indignant I do become when I see biological limitations becoming a curse, and social conditioning getting more regressive by the day. Try as hard as I might, I cannot laugh at what Kapil Sharma puts up as humour. It was funny for the initial bit, but to make a trend of laughing at women, servant class, and obese people - no, it just doesn't work any more. I did hear someone call Kapil the Shekhar Suman of our times, and with whatever little I remember of Movers & Shakers, I tend to disagree. Lets leave the rants at that.

A magazine I edited while heading the Women Studies and Development Cell, back in JMC

I don't like cooking. I don't want to cook. I always knew it was a difficult position to assert, but the fact that I would have to negotiate with not just individuals, rather entire communities to have this fact understood was not known to me. Ask Neha, please, how I routinely burn my eggs even in the simplest of recipes, or how I almost always end up adding extra salt in my maggi, sometimes even twice the amount of that extra salt, and you would know what kind of a culinary cripple I am talking off here. A few years back, I had even heard of a phenomenon called 'Mageirocophobia', which is the fear of cooking, and had conveniently adopted the label, till it was shrugged off by the dust of sookha aata on the chappati I was learning to flatten with a rolling pin. I can finally get them nice and round, but its only as enjoyable as a once-a-fortnight craft activity for me. I would enjoy painting the kitchen walls with vegetable dyes in an equal proportion. Unfortunately for many around me, this was the year I discovered Rokeya Sakhawat Hossain, Simone de Beauvoir and Parveen Shakir. I discovered Virginia Woolf and via the might of her quill, I understood the possibilities which would have been snatched from the hands of a certain, fictional Judith Shakespeare. (Among many of my professors, Dr. Baran Farooqi I specifically need to thank here). I learnt how economics influences the social, and how soon the personal starts becoming political. Vague? Well, yet again, a coffee invite is open. By the way, do you have any theories about the origin of the concept of incest? Try researching, some awesome nonsense might raise its ugly head in front of your eyes then.

The above is only a minute fraction of what has been festering inside me since long. It was the most pleasant journey of my life which probably ended up turning me into a feminist. Probably. And no, it is not because of some harsh experiences related to my body or sexuality. Yes, those are avenues of study for anyone wanting to delve into the politics of gender, but this is not the trigger for me. My problems started surfacing with something much more basic, perhaps even trivial to the world - emotions. Caught teary-eyed in certain situations, I realized that my valid concerns were being overlooked, undermined, just because tears, or sentimentality have come to acquire gendered connotations. I was not always PMSing while I was trying to make the world understand what part of me was hurting and why. In case of conflicts, primarily with the other sex, it was always expected of me to see reason, logic, and abandon emotions as they stifle fruitful outcomes. I failed to find logic in situations which had feelings attached at the very core of them. If I cry, I am emotional. If they show temper, they are not. Its sort of baffling, and ridiculous. And this did not end till one day I decided I will not go down to the level of logic till they decided to rise to the level of emotions. The process of othering, which I always found ludicrous, is the only refuge my expressions in this case have come to adopt.

Aaqib Raza Khan and his magic lens, yet again

I have a paper on gender, two days from now. You can see I am decently prepared. Superficially yes, but I'll conquer my syllabus soon.

The 24th year of my life was also the one where I discovered poetry and mythology. And some fantastic relationships. I'll pen them down soon too. For now, 6 days to go!
(This post is an hour late, hence I quote the figure 6)

Sonnet I - To An Ancient Lover

A series of messes, so dear and rich,

The wonders of love did drench me through,

Our paths were crossed by a river bewitched,

Slicing emotions that were set  to brew.

Your silhouette, tall, dark, confused,

Managed to salvage before it could flee,

I pondered if your visage shaded a recluse,

A self that perhaps could merge with me.

The mirror reflected less than it protected,

A glimpse was ours, a gift in parts,

Locked behind doors, moments perfected,

In parts, we discovered the wholeness of hearts.

Step aside, observe how you dwell in my eye,

Form an image of love, subsuming 'you and I'. 

Picture Credits - Madhurjya Saikia

P. S. - An attempted Sonnet written in a stupor. I have no idea what an 'iambic pentameter' means, so yes, judging me on that count is out of question.

Hum Aapki Kyun Karein? - Guest post by Neelkamal Pandey

Hum aapki kyun karein?

Aapne humein paida kiya, toh kya?

Aapne kiya, hum hue! 

Hum humaari sehmati se toh nahi hue.

Hum aapki kyun karein?

Aapne humara laalan paalan kiya, toh kya?

Aapne kiya, humne liya!

Humein karke zimmedaar toh aap hue.

Hum humaari sehmati se toh nahi hue.

Hum aapki kyun karein?

Kehte ho bahut suvidhaayein di hain, toh kya?

Aapne di, humne li. 

Arre suvidhaayein thi tabhi toh di na. 

Ismein hum kahaan kasurvaar hue?

Hum humaari sehmati se toh nahi hue.

Hum aapki kaahe karein?

Doosre se tulna kyun karte ho?

Har race mein kyun bhagwana chahte ho?

Aur usmein bhi awwal number lavana chahte ho.

Ghode toh hum hain nahi, 

Kiya toh aapne manush hi hai. 

Aur who manush aaj niraash hai.

Tulna karna, race bhagwana hi hai

Toh bhai ghoda paalo na.

Manush par kaahe apna daav laga rahe ho?

Woh toh khud sansaarik jue mein vyast hai.

Us se kyun aas laga baithe ho?

Dekho, tulna karna band karo.

Ghadi, ghadi shikaayatein band karo.

Aapne kiya, ab hum ho gaye hain. 

Apne pairon par – ladkhada hi sahi – 

Par khade ho gaye hain.

Hum ab jad-buddhi nahi hue.

Hum humaari sehmati se toh nahi hue.

Vishwaas rakho, who bhi dridh.

Karenge hum kuchh adbhut, yeh kar liya hai pran. 

Parajay sweekar karenge nahi

Jeevan ki aapa-dhaapi mein ghoomenge nahi

Karenge, nishchit karenge

Vilamb hoga, samay lagega, nishchit woh bhi

Ban-na hai peepal ka ped,

Jhaad patte nahi.

Apne diye hue sanskaaron par vishwaas rakho

Thoda hi sahi, par dil ke paas rakho

Sanskaaron ke diye se bahut se aeb jalaane hain.

Atah sansaar ko apna loha manwana hai.

Aur phir,

Phir aapse wahi prashn poochhna hai.

Ki kyun kare hum aapki? 

Aaj tak nahi hare jeevan ke jue

Hum humaari sehmati se toh nahi hue. 

- Neelkamal Pandey

The poet

About the poet - Kamal, as he is known to me, is one very unique and talented kid. I have not known him for long, but in that brief period, I have seen him grow and mature - in manners difficult to put in words. He has overcome inhibitions - and the above poem is one big and priceless example of the same. Even though it begins with a strong statement, lets all understand, this poem seeks not to disrespect or subvert any established notions  - it merely is a plea, which reveals the heart which many of us felt heavy with while growing up. It is an expression, to let out that which is stifling and restricting. It is a request, a sensitive one, to be trusted for one's abilities. It is that which  most of us can relate with.

This kid is a beautiful addition to my life - and discovering him, and knowing about him has been a process I have enjoyed a lot. Among his many facets now known to me, another is that he is a prolific painter along with being a poet. Below is a painting he made as a dedication to Nirbhaya - the braveheart whose imprint will remain on our collective psyches. I only wish Kamal keeps exploring himself and the world around him, and is able to arrive at a destination which does justice to his talents. 

Ode to Nirbhaya by Neelkamal Pandey

Chhupana Seekh Liya

Kal raat, os giri thi mere aangan mein

Shabnam mein dubki  lagaaye maano gulaab jagmaga raha tha

Nange paaon baithi rahi, use takti rahi

Woh khush tha, ya boondon ke peechhe akelapan chhupa raha tha?

Kal subah uthte hi, tumhe nahi sataaoongi

Yeh khayaal jo adhpake se hain, tumhe nahi bataaoongi

Laal rang ko andhere se ladte jo dekh liya

Khush hoon, ki ab maine chhupana seekh liya

Phir kasa hua man aur aawara kadam

Bistar ki or nikal pade khud hi, narmi ki lalsa liye

Wahaan bikhre kambal ke jagah

Parchhai dikhi tumhari, aur ekaa-ek kadam rok diye

Jaao, kambal tumhara, tumhari neend bhi zaroori

Main simat jaati hoon zameen par, chhod baatein adhoori

Parchhai se na aankhon ko na baaton ko, bas ehsaas ko jod diya

Maun man, aankhein nam, aur maine chhupana seekh liya

Subah laga, baadal the shayad baahar

Akdi, pareshaan kamar ko sambhala, bhari ek sust angdaai

Kohra mila phir kamre ke hi andar

Dar toh laga tha meetha sa, par tumhe samjhaane se katraai

Ab subah ki kadvi coffee  mein apne raaz ghol deti hoon

Man khatta hai zara, yeh cheeni se bol deti hoon

 Raat ke khwab, subah ke khayal, din-din ghat-ti hichkiyaan,

Meri hain, tumhari kyun? Ab maine chhupanna jo seekh liya

Veeran nahi hai sheher mera

Yahaan gham aur khushi ke mele bunte hain kai kahaani

Palon ki ginti rukti hai kya bhala?

Baatein banti rehti hain, tum ehem samjho ya bemaani

Pichhle roz maine, bhoori chidiya ko sataya tha

Us-se pichhle din, kuchh gehnon pe dil aaya tha

Kisi bhoole-pehchaane shaqs se baazar mein takra gayi

Bachpan ke kisse chale, jinko sunke hasi aa gayi

Akela kala gulaab, do hazaar ka bikta hai

Aur ek mera laal hai, jo ab khaas nahi dikhta hai

Pados wali aunty ki hasi, daayan ko dara de

Par hathon mein swaad aisa, ki roothe ko mana de

Namak sahi nahi ho, toh khaane se kudh jaati hoon

Par ek dost hai meri, jis se namakdaani chhupaati hoon

Kaam mein kuchh uljhi aise, ki dino-din qalam nahi uthaya

Aur diary jab ainthi, toh use choom ke bagal mein sulaya

Yeh chhoti chhoti baatein, yeh toote se kisse

Chhupa bhi loon, par hain toh zindagi ke hisse

Tum bhi ab kisson mein ho, waqt ne yeh tohfa diya

Tumhare kisse tumse kya, ab khud se chhupana seekh liya

This gem by Afremov is called 'Expectations of Love' - now, how interesting! 

PS - 

Ankahe ehsaas laal os mein pighal gaye

Ik atki si soch hai, woh batana chahti hoon

Ki jo baat tumse na kahi

Ab khud bhi bhool jaati hoon. 

Despair of Life

This, I can feel.
The dented love, eyes with steel
Parched lips, unable to speak
It will take sometime to heal

This, I admit
It ate you up, bit by bit
So long, so true, so pure, so mad
It now seems gross, a tad unfit.

I know, how you felt
Your smoky eyes, your skin velvet
The gentleness which you gently yearned
Your flaring nose when I’d forget.

I know you really tried
Held my arm despite the fright
First to notice signs of cracks
You pushed, you prayed night after night

Not you, I gave up first
I lowered myself to the settling dust
Purposeless, unhinged, unseen
Now consumed by love’s undying thirst

You see, I realized
Sans your presence, each moment despised
Searching love in darkened corners
Not my eyes, but my soul cried

I know, I made you sad
Pulled you down, drove you mad
With each fight your trust bled
You wondered, was it despair you wed.

But now, I am honest
I don’t seek the pain in your chest
I pain, I pine, I feel lost too
Can we overcome dejection’s tests?

You’re broken, and so am I
Let’s hold our hearts before they fly
Don’t you feel united in angst?
Won’t you, like me, without it, die?

Trust me, I will strive
To resuscitate, to make you alive
Through crazy fights and lonely nights
I learnt lessons powerful and concise
There can be no love as wise,
Nurtured without despair of life. 

Photo credits: Madhurjya Saikia, one of the finest photographers I have the fortune of knowing

The above poem was inspired by a friend, and his experiences with love. I have no idea where life will take him, but for now, he is hanging on. He is choosing to believe in love. He is waking up to the fact that essentially, love is all that there is. He is fighting for love - but the deal is, no one can win with love. One could only feel love after having lost everything to it, after having submitted to it. For this feeling and for him, I have the nicest wishes in my heart. 

May you all triumph in life
May you all lose to love.