Cohabitation

We're both

You and I

Packets of conflict

Which we've somehow learnt

To package within

The warm comfort

Of chaos

And cohabitation.

We're both

You and I

Starved

Within our respective set ups

Of repute and fulfilment

The flakes of which erode

As we dunk

Head first

In our tentative hooks of attachment.

We're both

You and I

Seeing through this shallow

Merciless

Groping world

Together

And within the counted hours

Of agitated murmurs

Do we find the sanity

Of shared dissent.

We're both

You and I

Ready to fly

Unto the horizons

Of risings dawns

And calming twilight

For too much light

Was never our turf

To play out the game of life

Within.

We're both

Getting by

On truth and a lie

Unhinged from our reality

But necessary for theirs.

Our existence only counts them

As expressions

Potent

If well uttered.

Our truth encompasses

The need to lie

To keep palaces of love

And lustre

Afloat.

We're both

Sitting aloof

Under a common roof

Of practiced codes.

We're drilling
Endless skies of imagination
Within these roofs of convention.

Our belonging is in pristine secrecy

Unhindered by mores

Undefined by the knowns.

We're both,

Both brave and naive

And hence lethal

To conditioning

And evolution

Of mimetic contours and edges.

We're tracing our own

Eclectic filigree

Of infrequent passion

Subsumed by over-awing need

To be different people
Within the same
Ancient

Conventions of chivalry.

We're both

Breaking conventions

By upholding chivalry.

Our rebellion is quiet
Lit by clandestine glee

In the warm glow of which

We carve a sub-realm

Of demands and unrealistic dreams.

Realism was never our cup

Or perhaps it was

Not that china held in dainty hands

But one gurgling on wobbly beams.

We’re both

Evolution’s pride

And each other’s private nightmares

Full to breaking with intensity

We know our lust for creativity

Can subsume.

We’re yellow today

And red tomorrow

And blue in distance

And golden each rise of morrow.

We are

Our private griefs

Shared from a distance

For the insistence

On owning our misery

Is absolute.

Our misery makes us whole

Our love breaks us

Into miserable quarters
Of timepieces set wrong.

We’re both

Accepted by the obtuse

And scorned by the obvious.

We’re both

Silenced by conversations

And stirred by observations.

We’re both

Traced by the confused

And rejected by definitions.

Source - Wallpaper Craft

Leap Into Some Love

I had been researching for an article on Leap Years and Leap Days, when the beauty of the concept struck me. Leap Days are days which exist lesser than the other days. These are days which go unnaccounted for. If you're working today, you're working without pay. If you were born today, you'll have to bank on either 28th February or 1st March as the official day you came into existence. Facebook will have nothing to show you today, unless from a really far off past.

And best of all, if you're forming memories today, you cannot mark an annual anniversary for them. Which makes the nostalgia invisible, or eternal.

Think about it. Today is a day you must obviously try and live more than the others, because, like I said, it will exist lesser than all the other days on the calendar. The scientific reason, of course, is to take care of the anomaly which arises between the calendar year and the solar year, but that reason makes no difference to my life. Despite this adjustment, there is still an error of timing left, which is adjusted by not counting multiples of 100 as Leap Years, unless they are multiples of 400 also. Too many numbers in there, and they still do not guarantee precision. Again, precision makes no difference to my existence, but reasons for forming formless memories do.

If you've seen the (quite disastrous) movie Leap Year, you would be aware of the Irish tradition where women could propose to men on a Leap Day, and fear no refusal. Some say, it is a day when no man is safe, because his denial may cost him a kiss, a silk dress, or a pair of gloves to be given to the lady who popped the question. This latter tradition, arguably, started in 13th century Scotland, when Queen Margaret decreed that on 29th February, a lady may unabashedly propose to any man she fancied. Rest assured, she won't go home empty handed.

It is quite apt, then, that the extra day be added to the month of love. No one really knows for sure why February was left with only 28 days in a calendar where all the other months boast of far more. There are legends, none with a strong grounding though. Leap Day gives this pretty month a chance at equality, just short of it though. And the more I think about this day of fleeting importance, the more its importance becomes apparent to me.

Even though modern existence robs most of us off the luxury of time, I'll still have a plan to utilise this extra day for moments, tasks and conversations which are too important to be archived. February 29th, in the modern idiom, should become the day where we all say out loud those things we've held onto for too long, without the fear of listener's judgement, or retaliation, or condescension. All those three are contemporary malaises, which deserve at least a day's bravery to cure. And if your brave admissions of love or longing (or desire, or any curbed feeling) are met with unpleasant reactions, there is always a kiss, a silk garment, or pile of books to ask for (because gloves really make no sense to our times).

There are times we push hard to make a moment happen, and then we wish it away because it turned out to be too unpleasant for our heart to digest. Congrats, here you have a day which you won't have to wish away, because it will not hit your calendar till it becomes a long lost memory, which, a leap of years later, you would only smile back with fondness over. At least I would. I like prolonging intense moments, by forming calendar memories of them. Today, I won't get to do that. It's my day to be brave, and yours too. If you've withheld a sentiment from me - inbox it right in! I have my most nonchalant self waiting to hear.

I really hope we make a tradition out of it. I would. In the personal utopia I have constructed with some kind people and kinder words. May Queen Margaret's decree be followed - a moment of love, or a bar of Silk, find your happiness either way, and then, if needed, forget the day ever existed :)

Live and let go, I believe, is a lovely motto for our age.

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

Meet My Family

I spent the day at home. It is a rare occurrence, if you must know. What was special about the day was the fact that despite accomplishing truckloads of work, and putting off another truckload, I slept rather peacefully. That, again is a rare occurrence.

The reason why my closed eyes could breathe easy was the fact that I knew I will make time to finish this blogpost before the day ended. This one is important to me. And it has been pending sometime. I was scared that by the time I get down to writing it, I'll lose the feel of it all, that I will get over the sense of overwhelm that assails me 14 times a week, that I will forget the pieces of memory I am trying so hard to keep together. Today, I knew I will make time to put all these anxieties at rest, because, as of the present day, I have much to be happy, and peaceful about in life.

I have been away from this precious domain for quite sometime, not being able to record all the amazing things my life is blessed with at present. Like, this very moment, when I am sitting next to a window with a mug of tea, with crazy rains outside, and the faces of my beloved kids in my mind. Most of us experience this kind of peace with the memory of a lover, enhanced by the romance of rains and a cuppa with the aroma of shared moments. In my case, the whiff of romance is similar, just that, it is shared with an entire family which loves me more than anyone, anytime, anywhere in the world can. All of them together, all of them individually.

It all began with poetic soiree, almost a year back. A lot strange faces I met were soon going to become my family. The process of coming close has been epic, but more epic are these individuals I seek to write about. Let me talk of the family, I'll talk of the Collective in a later edition, someday. Or not, Poets' Collective is because all of them are. Meet these people who make my heart a mushy place :)

Sumedha
I don't know why I began with her name. It is probably because of a really sweet message she sent my way last night, which ended up making me feel like the luckiest being alive. She has been attending our meets for close to 8 months now, and she never spoke a word - just silently sat their observing the poets recite away to glory. Till the day she gifted me a lovely handmade pen stand, I could not have guessed her levels of affection. Gifts, sometimes, are important. And today, when she has started chattering in front of us, I can distinctly see oodles of love in her eyes for me, and for this little mad family we have all created together. White and pure, these are the words which come to my mind when I think of her. Her talent, I believe, is yet to blossom out in the open - but she is already my young one, literally and figuratively, and I have no doubts in my mind that she will do brilliantly well in life, yet stay humble about it.

Riya
Riya is a rare talent, one that is difficult to control or cage or even channelise. Her thoughts, revolutionary and provocative, will keep flowing over and also singe those who listen to her with an unwelcome ear. She holds in her heart ideas powerful enough to inspire not ours, but a generation of the future. She is someone who is elder for her years, and hence, who humbles me into listening. I have nothing to give her but all the encouragement in the world. She is her own guide, her own flame, and as travellers on a similar journey, I hope she keeps us close. And I miss her. And I think she knows it.

Sharad
I love getting photographed - and that is a world famous fact. What is little known, however, is the fact that I have been fortunate enough to chance upon some genuine behind camera talents, who make me look good, probably better than my own imaginations. Sharad is one such spark of brilliance who has just floored me with his insane levels of warmth and love. He calls me mummy whenever he feels cornered, and the alacrity it fills me with is more than visible on my face. I call him my minion - yellow, funny and happy. I've seen him cry in the middle of a monologue which remains among my most prized moments in life - when this kid admitted to having developed more respect for people around him after having joined the PC gang. In another bit of fond memory, he has learnt to give nice hugs now (and that is something, his girl - now or in future - has me to thank for!)

Divyaksh
He is the funniest brained person I know. His life is discontinuous fragment of satirical observations on the world around, each woven into a metaphor we now understand and associate with. He is a Jaya aunty fan. He has a hold on marketing and mythology logic with the same comfort. He sings bollywood numbers at inappropriate places and comments inadvisable nonsense much to the chagrin of fellow metro passengers. He talks non-stop. He is elder to me, yet gives me the respect of an elder sibling. He says he is a lost soul who feels like he's given direction when he is with us. He loves pink. And as far as I am concerned, he is the one person I feel the safest with.  He can keep me entertained for hours, he can contest my logic, and yet end on a very respectful note. Like everyone else, he is such an important part of my family, and my existence. I hope I can learn from his genius. Also, he is a dinosaur.

Nimisha
I have many sons, but she is the first daughter of my family. I consciously call her my beloved daughter, for she evokes in me a feeling akin to very motherly protectiveness. I feel like taking her in my arms and protecting her from all the ill-tendencies out there in the world. Not once, but many a times has it happened that she hugs me in a restaurant, and before you know it, she falls asleep then and there. And never have I had the heart to rouse her out of the very peaceful slumber reflected on her face. While she is talented and belligerent in her own ways, never has she stepped out of very humble and respectful mannerisms for me. It makes me feel blessed and responsible in equal measures. Till where I can push, I will do so for her. Oh, my only complaint to her - ladki phate kapde pehen ke baahar aa jaati hai. Needs a wardrobe overhaul asap. Rest, she can come to me with all her fears, and they'll be absorbed. Promise!

Anurag
We go back a long way, and I have seen this one go through many lows and highs and yet survive and come out strong. He is again one of those who is elder to me, but manages to give me the respect of didi. Legend has it that I scared him away when I met him the first time, but he managed to be brave enough to return to our kind of poetry, and has kept coming back since. A kind of syntactical distortion lends extreme levels of genius to his poetry, but these distortions exist because he has seen the anomalies and realities of life very closely. What I really want to tell him is that each time he has lived up to his own expectations, he has lived up to mine. And nothing will catch my attention more than his doing well in his own manner, on his own path. I do want to be a happy co-traveller, if possible?

Abhishek
I never call him Abhishek. Never. In public, or private, I love calling him Chintu. And I love it more when he resists this nickname from everyone else, except me. There is no end to how special I feel each time he lays bare his heart and soul in front of me, telling me all little details of things which have shaped him and his sensibilities. He is quite a sensitive and sensible soul, who is capable of taking care of himself, as well as those around him. In our close knit family, he fulfils many functions - a brother to one, a son to the other, a friend to another. The best thing about him? When I am not able to give him my full attention, he does not develop a grudge. He thanks and lauds me for absorbing so many stories of so many of them. I mean, the maturity strikes straight through my heart!

Neha
This girl stuns and surprises me each time. A pretty, sophisticated, ever-smiling girl - I could have never imagined a streak of activism in her, which I am being greeted with since past sometime. Neha is a completely paarivarik girl, who brings along the same values in my family. With her around, I can be sure that no malice and ill-will will enter our world. She expresses less, but when she does, I feel like floating above and beyond the moon. She holds me responsible for much, not realising that had she not been spreading energy around with her infectious smiles, our world would have been a lot less happier. She'll do well, with her smart mind and diligent heart, and she'll always remain a beautiful part of my life because of her almost selfless levels of trust and love for us.

Aniket
Aniket is not among the kids I have spent a lot of time with, but I know in my heart that whenever he finds a zone and opportunity, he comes running to us. For now, what I know is that I quite adore his kurta clad look, and his warm and respectful countenance. He seems to be someone I can trust with many responsibilities, and he will not disappoint me ever. I just want to see him around more, much more.

Shibani
Shibani is the latest entry in our madhouse. The fact that she is a poet-performer-par-excellence is known to all of Delhi. What is not known to all perhaps is that she is mad in equal measures to all of us, and that is why, probably, she feels at home with us. I did not expect to see her around so often, but I guess, she accepted us in her life before we accepted her in ours. With me, I remember feeling super-elated when she gave me a very warm hug post her performance at the last meet. Few things give me greater pleasure than being accepted in the lives of people with such faith. A few conversations later, I am cozy with the knowledge that she identifies with us, our cause, and is honest in her efforts to help us go places. In whatever little manners I can, I am there with her, for her :)

Shiva
She is a stunner. Again, I don't know much about her, but she has much depth and calm to her being. I have not heard many of her compositions, but the one poem I have heard, I keep hearing it daily. Because it calms me down. Because in the mad mayhem of technology, she is a pleasant pause, with old-world values and charm. Because her heart as pure as pure can be and that reflects in her words. Because I know I am not super-close to her, but she is going to be indispensable to our family, real soon.

Prateek
Umm. The caveat here is, anything I say will be saying too less. He began as a creep in my life, and has graduated to becoming an extremely creepy stalker now. I think very few people know me the way he does, because even when I am not letting out much, he is observing and absorbing. Prateek is an incredibly brave child, for he has chosen the difficult path of aspirations in life - but he is holding up. And so long as he is holding up, I am there with him to give the necessary push and guidance. Each time he thanks me for being around, my heart shrinks a little, because I feel I have not done enough for his genius to blossom. But he understands, I am sure he does. He is among the few who understands my affection as much as my irritations. Among my more mature sons, he is probably the one I will remember to call in my old age. To take care of me. Or just to give me a lot of grandchildren to while away my time with. (I will spoil them better than I spoilt you. And you cannot stop me.)

Ambikesh
Can I ever put in words the love we share? Can you do it? Can anyone else do it? You were the useless, pennyless  college student who made me suffer a loss of 500 bucks when you came in the first time. Those 500 rupees are the best investment I have made in life ever. You know Ambikesh, I often end up riling people when I feel they do not reciprocate or do enough for me after we've parted ways. In your case, you are always giving me 2x the love I can. I am already in your debt. I don't speak to anyone as much as I speak to you. I do not go to people to for advice or for sharing my lows as much as I do with you. And you manage to calm me down. Sometimes, you make me cry in confusion, because, when you tell me how much you and the others love me, my mind literally stops functioning because, I mean, how can this much happiness and love be possible. Being the cherophobe that I am, I shut out most of these positive feelings, lest they make me arrogant. But, you all do make me arrogant, you know. This is the best of a family I have experienced, and you're my elder son. It might all change tomorrow, but, you're the focus of my life for now. And even though you do not need it, I know, I'll be protecting you forever.

This is a good season of life. Among the best, but so precious, that I am scared to call it the best. Keep the family together, please?

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)

Unlove

A few days ago, a friend quoted a line out of an earlier blog post, which went like this - "Love should never begin at admiration." This set me thinking on what I must have been thinking when I wrote it. (If you must put it in context, the post is called Anamnesis, which investigates a past love with the prism of today) Was I sad, deluded, angry, moody, troubled - or simply pensive? Or passive? Or subtly aggressive? Well, love can lead you into any of those phases, seamlessly. The awesome surprising bit is, I feel none of the love which I did then. The love which was a living thing inside me is so dead, that death would itself be baffled. The point to take note of here is, whenever something inside you dies, it kills a little pretty part of you. And then, like they say, maturity happens.

My musings today are about where should love begin - if it begins in your life at all. At a younger time, I would have fervently wished that you feel love with all intensity, as early as possible in life. Now, I would be cautious. I have seen far too many hearts shrink in size while growing up in love. Your's did not? You lucky, umm, something! Share the trick, please?

PC - @Elenalanzart

Again, where should love begin? At the first sight, erupting in little tremors all over your skin? Or in tickles, at all the wrong places? Should love be a product of what you imagine your life to be with a certain person? Or should it be a gradual flow alongwith everything that happens in life? Should it be exciting or calming? Or both? Should it give you sleepless nights or dizzying intoxications? Should it be borne out of a habit or a break from habit? Should it be a hope of being empowered, or an urge to beautify someone else's life? Don't say both! We all know about power balances and stuff like that.

I am not seeking answers. If at all I am, it is not from people who have condescendingly satisfying love lives. I want it from people who have been broken by love into a million little pieces they somehow hope to carry along. You guys are brave. But do you know the problem with being brave? No one gives a shit. It's not a distressed statement. It is the absolute truth. Calm, calculated truth. How does it fit with the musings on love? It does, because I would like to know if it necessary to be vulnerable to feel love or evoke love? Or you could be hard as a rock and yet be loved, or be thought of as capable of being loved? Not too complicated, just thinking.

The answer lies in a chaos, perhaps. Our own, unique, concocted chaos. The only underlying solution I would vouch for is that love is a better, more desirable state of life. It is something which will add a sheen to the way the life is getting reflected in your mirror. If what you desire is a partner who can sweep you away, so be it. If you need someone who can make you firmer on your ground, I wish you all luck. I, personally think you need both. Will you get both? Two years back I would have said, 'yes'. Today, I'd say, 'it depends'. And I'll sleep off without a speck of disturbing scruples.

You see, I am waiting for my muse to appear drunk in my dream and kiss me. That.

PC - Neelkamal Pandey

Weekend Review - Cafune by Archana Kumar

This is the first book I am reviewing this year, and generally in a long time. It goes without saying that the first book which compelled me to come out and resume writing reviews is a really special one. Why is it special has factors both, textual and contextual. However, let me assure you, that it is more because of textual wonders that I hold the current book in a very high stead. The fact that it is written by a dear friend, fellow poet and wonderful human being, named Archana Kumar, does not rob me off the objectivity that as a reader-reviewer I attach to each book.

So, the name of the book is 'Cafune'. Rather strange, isn't it? Well that is because this word has been drawn from Portuguese lexicon. The magic of the book begins at the meaning of the word 'cafune' - the repeated running of fingers through someone's hair in a delicate manner. Paints quite a picture, doesn't it?

Well, Cafune is a collection of poems by Archana Kumar, a poet based in Delhi, the depth and expanse of whose expression has genuinely stunned me. Her poems are wrapped under the aura of a very, may I say, romantic title - and they do carve out a story of love which one gets, begets, forgets, and probably regrets. Her verses, even thought profoundly drawn from the nuances of romance, are not limited to just this one theme. They are a very subtle, yet effective comment on the strange experiences of modern existence, the pervasive uncertainty which dots all our relationship experiences, the tussle between attachment and objectivity and the pining for the essence which makes life comprehensible. Heavy? No. Her verses make all these sound easy and reachable.

While having broadly talked of the theme, I find it extremely relevant to comment on her poetic grammar and syntax. Upon the reading of her third poem, I was keen to know if Archana had been inspired by the writings of the great 20th century poet - e e cummings. No, I have not forgotten my punctuations, but cummings preferred not adhering to any bit of lingual colonization of minds. He would break castles of grammar and punctuation routinely, thus being a fierce face of the avant garde art movement. Even more curious is the fact that cummings would mostly be writing in traditional styles, but his innovative syntax would completely stun you out of your comfort zone.

I located cummings in one of Archana's poems, and was glad to know I am not completely off-guard. Her poems are a visual delight, besides being rich in symbolism and in-between meanings. She has challenged the capitalization of 'I' in her verses, broken free from sentence grammar and even visually represented her poems to make words and images function in tandem. An example is her poem Cancer, which is shaped like an hourglass to portend the running out time/life. The endings of her poems are sometimes constructed to throw the reader off-guard. Modern-day slangs find elegant integration in her storified-poems. The collection has a mix of pleas, reminiscences, nostalgia, bitterness, equanimity, contradictions and even gratitude statements. You will also find some Haikus in the book, which are as effective as her other compositions. Most of the poems are short, but even the longer ones manage to hold a reader's attention with skill.

A great deal of editorial finesse has probably gone behind making this book so good. It was my metro companion for two days, which made me sigh, gasp and get transported to thought realms while jostling with huge volumes of crowd. It is not that the book is perfect, but close to it. My only problem with the verses was, perhaps, an element of repetition. This repetitiveness manifested in themes, and sometimes in metaphors as well. I also found pop-notional representation replete in her text. For example, her poem Hey There read like the famous song Hey Jude. And I am not saying it is good or bad. At the end of the day, it left me a satiated reader.

This is a four on five star book for me. And those who read my reviews would know that fours in my ratings are hard to come by.

Before closing the review, I would like to congratulate Archana on her fine debut effort. I would also like to point out my quintet of favourites from this anthology.

1. Matter and Flesh
2. Gods
3. Dream
4. Trigger
5. Proximity

Contradiction and Intimacy of Distance form a close runners-up to my quintet. 

The Poet, in one of her finest candid avatars.

Winter Notebook - The World Is Not A Wish Granting Factory

Merry Christmas people! Wish you a great one.

Wishful thinking. That is what I am indulging in for now. I have realised, negative emotions make me write more than positive ones do. Is it the same with you? The world, including me, needs to take a serious course in 'Count Your Blessings'. However, the pathetic state of humanity we are all living together in, we cannot all help but ponder constantly over that one grand moment which will come in our life and set it all right. Reality check - it does not happen that way. No. Your life, as well as my life, will remain a constant tussle between the highs and the lows, the goods and the bads, the brights and the darks. I also think I am descending into the thought patterns which tells me only sorrow is real - happiness is but a break from it. Something like how only darkness is real and all.

Among the many stupid things I keep thinking about, one is recurrent. I am talking about wishful, idiotically optimistic thinking. Every time someone cancels a plan, or expresses his/her inability to meet me, at some deep corner in my heart, I am convinced (foolishly, of course), that the cancellation is a mere decoy to give me a surprise! I hope to be that special for everyone. This happens every single time. If my friend says I am not coming to office/college tomorrow, I always travel in the morning in the hope of seeing the same friend waiting to surprise me with a hug. If a friend cancels a lunch date, I am hopeful that the same friend will barge into my house and carry my favourite food and we'll have the time of our life. I hate being surprised, but I still keep planting these scenarios in my head. This is what keeps me going.

I guess the easiest way to be with people in inside my head. Very few of us realise that sometimes, a casual promise, casually uttered, is something our dear ones are hanging onto, with dear life. Cancelling plans, treating promises with scant respect is a way of life, you see. When I look pleadingly into the eyes of a friend and say, 'But you promised...', the same friend looks back at me incredulously, as if the logic I am basing my argument on is long dusted away under the covers of Grimm's Fairy Tales. But what to do, the world is something you still believe in. People are something you still believe in. Your wishes are tied down to moments of togetherness, of love shared and concern showed.

So, is there a way out? Sure there is. I mean, as far as I have been able to crack, the only antidote to 'The World is not a Wish Granting Factory' statement is becoming material in your wishes. Yes. Then all you need to do is earn enough money. Lots of money. Or pass on this list to a friend. Trust me, friends find it convenient to parcel you a (material) gift of your choice. It is best if it can be found over Flipkart (and the likes). Ease of ordering and delivery - now that, is precious.

Anyway, the five things that would make me super happy this Christmas are the following. Feel free to gift in dozens :)

1. Mittens!
I love the ones with fingers open, but, then, do they serve their purpose well?

2. Ring - this one!

Source - BoredPanda

3. All things Silver
You can start at this for reference.

Source - Etsy

4. Books
Romance, that is what is lacking in my thinking.

Source - Ubbcluj

5. Hugs and Gossip and Coffee
The most expensive item on my list, but I hope I get a lot of it :)

You know why I particularly love winters? Because this is the season of funny hats and funnier feelings. More on that, on the next page of my notebook. Share your wishlist with me, and I will try my best to be your Secret Santa :)

Winter Notebook - Saudade

At times, I feel like cleansing it all. 
All of it. 
The faces. The love.
The simple. The tough. 
The pleasure. The groans.
The kisses. 
The races, against time.
The words, which seldom rhymed.
The bonds. The myths. 
The cuddles. The rifts. 
The playfulness. 
The kicks
I got out of
Knowing I am the special one
For him
And for her. 
You know what they do? 
They shamelessly display glee. 
In tasteless pictures
Clicked in abhorrent corners of the world
Which now they call new zones
Of friendliness. Of love. 
I feel like cleansing it all. 
All if it. 

I'll just hold memories. 
You know, I own them. 
I can kiss them gently 
Or smother them in my imagination. 
They're fine, really. 
These memories I use to torture myself. 

Of moments that will not come back ever, 
Or which perhaps did not exist in the first place. 

Photo by Achint Mathur

I do not have great things to write about, but the irony between the word (shared today on twitter by Tarique Anwer, a dear friend) and my thoughts struck me. This irony was special and ironical, because all the thoughts of 'cleansing' are borne out of a 'yearning'. So, the paradox is actually the essence. Okay. I am losing it. But you get this story, right? At some point, it must have been your story too. Now, it is my story. 

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

Kitaabon Sa Rishta - Part II

Meri sard kahaani mein kahaani nahi
Chai ki chuski jaise aaya woh
Kitaabon par jo dhabbe chhod jaati hai
Mehekti adrak ki pyaali jaisa aaya woh
Barfeeli raaton mein rooh ko garmahat de jaaye
Behkaate, chuskiyaan lete lamho jaisa aaya woh
Har roz chai chadhaane ka hausla de jaaye
Subah ke zayke jaisa aaya woh
Dil kuchh khush hua, kuchh majboor
Uske paas ja baithi, khud se door
Ab usmein hi toh main rehne lagi thi na
Khushk haathon mein mehendi mehendi mehekne lagi thi na
Usne safed nahi, laal sehra bandh liya tha
Mujhe laal dupatte mein samete, saath dhaank liya tha
Uski athkeliyaan mann mein goonj uthi aise
Ki ris rahi ho uske hasi mein bachpan ki maasoomiyat jaise
Khayaal dar khayaal woh mere paas aata raha
Lamha dar lamha mujhse door hota raha
Aankhri saans tak saath nibhaana yaad raha usse
Woh saans mere aaghosh mein leke ka nata yaad raha usse. 

PS - This is part II of a four part poem. You can read the first part here - Kitaabon Sa Rishta - Part I

Kitaabon Sa Rishta - Part 1

Main kitaabon mein uljhat-ti
Kabhi kahaani ki parton mein sulajhti
Nazm si khoobsurat
Ghazal ki nazuk
Ashaar si daqeeq
Aur sher si bebak
Meri zindagi zard panne samete
Phalsapha ban chali thi
Gham ka sabab na thi woh
Khushnuma ho chali thi
Khayalon ka anjuman
Safed chaadar se dhaka tha
Sard fizaaon ka majma
Kitaabon ke oopar khada hai
Yeh kitaabein, mulaayam baatein
Kadak panno mein bolti hain
Sardiyaan hi toh sach hain
Yeh raaz kunkuni aankhon si kholti hain

Source - bookjunkiepromotion.com

P.S. - This is the first of a four part poem. Next part to come up in a few days. 

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)