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

The Perfect Winter Read

"There is a legend about a bird which sings just once in its life, more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth. From the moment it leaves the nest it searches for a thorn tree, and does not rest until it has found one. Then, singing among the savage branches, it impales itself upon the longest, sharpest spine. And, dying, it rises above its own agony to outcarol the lark and the nightingale. One superlative song, existence the price."

- Colleen McCullough

(The Thord Birds, Page 422, 30th Anniversary Edition)

What are your expectations from winters? Mine are rather simple. Warmth. Whether it comes via a fond conversation over drinks, or through mid-morning strolls in the beautiful monuments of Delhi. Or through a book which makes you forget all else as you plunge nose-deep into it's world of romance. Along with a steaming cup of Earl Grey as you lie limp wrapped in a blanket. 

While the first two expectations I am still working on, the last got fulfilled through the most gorgeous read which was literally thrust into my hands by the very sweet librarian at Shiv Nadar School, Gurgaon. Titled 'The Thorn Birds', I had no idea it was every bit the literary classic I had wanted to lay my hands on since long. It just looked thick, and good enough to hide behind the pages off for a while. And so, I grabbed it and began turning pages at the solemn pace the story demands out of a reader. 

It is not a page turner - a book like this never can be. It is a tale which makes you shut the covers once in a while to reflect, not necessarily on the contents of the story, but perhaps on the universal condition and experience of humans and humanity. It doesn't make you feel wretched; but it makes you realise how equal a participant you are in the inescapable suffering and pain which comes packaged with life. It makes you belong to this world, in its tribulations, if not the triumphs. 

But this is not all why I enjoyed reading the book. I loved it because it churned the ordinary into grand. To call it a love-story between Meggie Cleary and Ralph de Bricassart would be too less. It is a life story extending to three generations, taking the reader painstakingly through every detail, every season, every loss, and every minute of maturing which the characters undergo. It contains characters who are not shy of evolving or altering. These characters - people - respond not to their impulsive vows bound in time and situations, but to life itself. They respond to fears, tragedies, prospects and desires just like we would. It is fabulous to see how at the end, you can actually pin-point all incidents which led to the complex layers that have evolved within each character. That, dear friends, is very, very fine writing. 

A tall, imposing presence in the text is that of Drogheda - the land on which most of the story is based. Even when the tale ventures beyond the land and sea, Drogheda remains conspicuous by its absence. What is profound about this spatial dimension is that just when you are led into believing that there is a permanence which we all must return to, you're made to realise that such permanence can never be earthly. It has to be divine. It has to be of the realm beyond. 

The author - Collen McCullough - who died aged 77 last year.

And finally, the one reason the book will stay with me is because it taught me to see fulfilment in tragedies. It makes you believe that you may begin with a love story, and end up with another. It showed me how answers come to those who believe, not to those who doubt. And also because it, unerringly, and non-judgmentally, brought up the beautiful discrepancies as they exist between genders - through the upbringing, conditioning and also, intuitively perceiving the world. 

Like I said, calling this a love story would be too less. It is a story of lives - many lives, lived and lost. Most certainly recommended to all looking for something replete with grand ordinariness, and ordinary grandeur. 

Bibliophilia Revisited - Part II

Thanks for reading the earlier post and feeding me some brilliant new titles. Here is the second set of 9 books. Tell me which ones you adore and abhor - and why!
(Also, it took me a while to complete this post - I am finally at the point in life where hours in each day are too few!)

1. The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes

Gifted by Saif bhaiya. He never goes wrong with books and poetry. 

What you remember is a very personal version of what happened. This book, a short text of profound depth, will grill into you precariousness of memory, history and constructs of identity.

2. The Sensualist by Ruskin Bond

Bought from Oxford Bookstore. 

Why this book makes the cut is because this is unlike any Ruskin Bond you might have read. The endearing author who wrote of childhood, hills and nascent relationships suddenly delves into topics of intense and even violent sensuality - a surprise from his corpus.

3. The Last Song of Dusk by Siddharth Dhanvant Shanghvi

This book called out to me from a shelf at Spell & Bound, SDA. The bookstore, unfortunately, does not exist anymore. 

I have misplaced the picture of the book, but it remains indelible on my psyche. It is among my top 5 reads of the entire lifetime. I have a definite crush on the author, and he, in my opinion, is the best writer of Magic Realism among Indian writers in English. The Last Song of Dusk is a masterpiece of intensity, poignance, pain and sensuality. Treat, this book is a treat for any heart!


4. To Sir, With Love by E. R. Braithwaite

Sent to me by Ayush, a cousin from Mumbai.

A classic. This is an autobiographical text about a teacher making a forceful impact on the lives of students. It resuscitates your belief in the institution of education, which, however obsolete in terms of content, can create remarkable differences with the aid of one motivated and enterprising individual. (I am so kicked about being a teacher in a part-time role, more so because I know of such possibilities!)

5. The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid by Bill Bryson

Gifted by Gangesh, who remained disappointed with me for the greatest time because I couldn't find time to read this book. 

This is a memoir - about a child growing up along with the world around him. Each new development brings an opinion along with fascination - a wonderful guided tour through the America of mid-20th century.

6. Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair by Pablo Neruda

Gifted by Saif bhaiya, as a Diwali present. His choice, as always, was impeccable. 

I sigh as I read the name of this book. Neruda creates magic while fusing melancholy and love in his verses. Read - there is no other way of understanding this experience. I have gone through each poem here more than six times, and I cannot help but be captivated into a lull each time. A lyrical lull.

7. My Gita by Devdutt Pattanaik

Bought from a roadside book-shack in Green Park.

"Yatha ichchhasi, tatha kuru" is my takeaway from this book. Own your beliefs, be an eternal observer and change along with the times - this is what the text teaches us. The best part is, this text will probably teach you something much different than what it emphasized to me. Pattanaik has created a following for a reason - he makes Indian philosophies accessible, while providing counter-narratives to each. Read this book, and then read this again. I have put it on my TBR this year as well.

8. Urnabhih by Sumedha Verma Ojha

Gifted as a performance reward by Deepak, my boss in the previous organization. 

A love saga set in the Mauryan times, drawing its basic plot from the state espionage system - what else do you need for killer excitement in literature! The author brings an altogether different era alive in front of you - and I experienced racing heartbeats more than once. I was literally sitting on the edge to see plots and sub-plots unfolding with alarming grace as I turned pages. This is highly recommended!

9. Norwegian Woods by Haruki Murakami

Secret Santa gift by Shweta, colleague at Shiv Nadar School, where I am currently employed. 

Need I even spare words on praising Murakami? I will say what I said in a review earlier - Murakami makes sadness titillating. It is a task accomplished with much difficulty and immersion. Norwegian Woods became a part of my blood flow while I read it, and rendered me incapable of reading anything else till long later.

My reading is coming along just fine this year as well. I recently received my Brunch Book Challenge hamper, for having finished 58 books in the past year, and I am more positive now about the ways in which reading can impact your life. Above and beyond all, reading gives you yourself. I don't know if it makes sense, but each time you run a line and its meaning in your head, you're talking to yourself. It brings you at peace with the idea of existence. It also, many times, gives you answers that you had forever been seeking. Read, and keep reading, for there is only so little time to absorb so much out of the Universe.

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

Soulmates - Guest Post by Prateek Pandey

That dreamy look you get when someone walks into the room can mean only one thing. Your soul mate has arrived. The way they smile, the way they shift their gaze down and left with that reflective look before they answer, or the way they throw their head back when they let out a hearty laugh leaves you weak at the knees. Carefully caressing every movement of theirs with your gaze, their sigh becomes your sigh and their embrace becomes your completion.

Such deep surrender can only be possible with a soul mate. It cannot be explained any other way, right? Of course it can, but in that moment of desire, logic escapes us and the loins take over where love pretends to play. But it’s not a singular desire that drives us to lose sight of reality and suddenly abandon our faculties in favour of love, sweet love. That would be far too simple a neanderthal response to explain why such sophisticated beings as ourselves suddenly drool with desire when the brain fog sets it.

We go through life savouring successes, even tiny ones, bravely rising from each setback that befalls us. With each rising we muster a portion of renewed hope, a smattering of new wisdom, and a lowly regret that we tuck away neatly because it doesn’t quite complete the picture that we now present to the world. That’s the image of composed resilience that won’t be stifled. It would be fantastic if that cycle came around only once, but it doesn’t. It comes around more often than we’d care to remember, or even less than we’d care to admit. And so with each cycle we grow weary, but continue to exude hope and optimism, because all the fairy tales in the world cannot be wrong. My soul mate cometh, and I shall be ready and waiting to meet her at the door before the threshold, so that we can trundle in together, or not.

The reality is closer to the truth of us spending our lives seeking avenues of expression so that we may be able to reveal ourselves to the world without feeling vulnerable in the process. Striking that balance leads to a tiresome combination of restraint and expression, until one of the two become more dominant. That dominant disposition shapes our character to the world around us, eventually convincing even us that it is who we are, until that fateful moment when that soul mate enters. That soul mate comes in the form of one who expresses what we restrain, and restrains what we express, thereby striking a cord with a desire buried so deep that just teasing it leaves us giggling like lovesick teens who just witnessed the de-flowering of the world.

That completeness awakens us to the optimism and passion we once held dear, and with seeming abandon, we expose ourselves willingly in preparation for the embrace we yearned for since forever. Suddenly we wish to express to the world on their behalf what they restrain, trusting foolishly that they will express to the world what we restrain, and from between our loins shall spawn the perfectly balanced beauty of the sum of us.

PC - www.aliexpress.com

Whether they are soul mates or not is almost entirely irrelevant, or at best, subject to interpretation. We selectively interpret life, and love, and then follow it with deliberate action that either proves our views to be true, or abandons the world for being untrue. It is what we choose it to be, but such choices have to be mutual if the outcome is to be idyllic. Sometimes we meet one whose choices are inversely mutual, thereby syncing perfectly with our own, but sometimes what appears to be an initial sync turns out to be a novelty phase of fascination and not much more. When that phase passes, some will convince us that soul mates are not always intended to stay forever, while others will suggest that they weren’t ours to begin with. Either way, the outcome remains true, and the lessons we take will either build us up, or break us down.

The amazing thing is, whether we’re right or wrong is not really what matters. That’s just bonus points. How we appreciate and grow from whatever or whoever comes our way is what peppers life beautifully, or taints it horribly. Much of life is wasted waiting for opportune moments or validation. Soul mates will be drawn towards us as kindred spirits when we live authentically and pause only for air to fill our lungs before we push on again. But authenticity is not easy to express, because we’re raised to find affection and validation as markers that determine our success. No wonder, in a world of emotionally stinted half formed adults, we wait for our soul mates to join us before we immerse ourselves fully in what is always only ever a one time offer.

Life doesn’t wait for soul mates, nor should you.

***

About the Author - Prateek Pandey is an idiot. He is precisely the kind of idiot I am proud of knowing and in whose presence literature, poetry and language acquire newer dimensions. He answering questions through his prose and poetry which the world is yet to learn to ask. Lampooner. 

Bibliophilia Revisited - Part 1

Hello!

If you've known me via any medium in the past year - personal or digital - there is a good chance you know that the bibliophile in me had gone insane. I read a very proud 58 titles in the year, 18 of which, I realised, I need to sing praises of.

Quoting from an the previous post - "Books helped me discover knowledge, meaning and even balance. A  lot of time which I could have potentially spent over-thinking was spent guessing and obsessing over unfolding plotlines. My thoughts were often writing stories of their own, which were so powerful, that it impacted my actual writing styles, in a good way. I connected with people who connected with my reading list - and these, I can tell you, were the easiest people to match wavelength with. I ended up inspiring, quite happy to say this, a few to set their own personal targets and take up reading seriously in the coming year."

If your reading list is not sorted for the coming months, following are the 9 books I can safely recommend for complete satiety of the book-lover in you. I will follow this up with another post containing the remaining 9 titles, to complete the list of 18 fantastic reads. (Random fact - 18 is a really cool number. In my life, as well as in the Mahabharata.)

Here we are - leave your thoughts about the books you have already read and any further suggestions for me in the comment box please!

1. The Bridges of Madison County by Robert James Walker

A beautiful New Year gift by Ankita!

Romance, eternity and simplicity beautifully combine in this book. This was my January read, and the most comfortable companion for breezy afternoons with a cup of coffee.

2. The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro

Picked up a year after it was prescribed in my course on postcolonialism during Masters at Jamia Millia Islamia. Der aaye durust aaye.

Remains of the Day is a poignant recollection of the waning period of British empire, especially the manner in which it affected the British Aristocratic class. It tells the story of a Butler and his obvious confusions with the changing social relations and norms of conduct. A dash of unrequited love, and, sigh, the book manages to mark a permanent place in your heart. (You can also watch the film adaptation, equally good, I can say.)

3. Love in the Times of Insurgency by Birendra Kumar Bhattacharya

No clue as to how I came to own this. 

A translation, this one is a Sahitya Akademi winner. The plot dives into the life of Naga people, and the effect of Second World War on them. Nothing has introduced me to the local practices and beliefs of Nagas as wonderfully as this book. Then of course, the binding factor is the throbbing tale of love in the middle of all violence and mayhem.

4. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban by J. K. Rowling

Bought the entire set from Delhi Book Fair 2014. Just like that. Because I am crazy when I have money.

I cannot potentially dare to say anything about this saga - way too many Potterheads out there to glorify the series. However, I can safely say that I am ecstatic I began on this magical journey, even if very late in life.

5. The City of Djinns by William Dalrymple

Someone gifted this to me. Can't remember who. 

Classic. It is not a leisurely read, but has a lot to offer to anyone who is in love with the city.

6. First There Was A Woman and other stories by Marija Sres

Bought it from the Zubaan Mela, 2014. 

I pick up a lot of Zubaan books, primarily to understand gender and gendered existence. And theory never helps me, stories do, This is a fantastic book with fables, legends and myths to understand how the sociological constructions of gender came about.

7. An Abundance of Katherines by John Green

Bought from Salim bhai's bookshop (New Book Land, Janpath). Best books, best rates. 

This is my favourite John Green, a preference which does not find favour with many. Besides having all the elements of a quintessential John Green book, it has some mathematics and formulae aimed at defining love. Also, it has an ending which, for a change, did not leave me brooding.

8. Myth=Mithya by Devdutt Pattanaik

Bought from Salim bhai ki dukaan. 

Symbolism has always fascinated me, and when I discovered infinitely fascinating symbolism in my own backyard, I was dying with delight! Pattanaik offers you an understanding of much from our traditions, rituals and culture we take for granted and refuse to acknowledge. I am all set to read this book one more time.

9. Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom

Gifted with love and a love-note by Neha Thureja. My kid. 

I do not read a lot of self-help books, and this looked like one. I was, however, pleasantly surprised by the the simplicity, both, in narrative and in content. I did not learn many new lessons here, but my faith in the way I lead life got reaffirmed a great deal.

Nine more books are left to complete this list. That will happen in the next blogpost.

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.

If I Could

If I could

I would tell you

That I love the idea

Which brews

With your aroma

And dies with my soul.

You're tastefully forbidden

Majestically hidden

Tragically unbidden

In this land

Which unfolds

Into folds

Of my existence

Screechingly tugging at yours.

If I could

I would tell you

That I want that story

To plain be true

Which I conjured

Out of the concoction

You held in your hands

And more so in your eyes.

As our gaze met

Unflinchingly

Mischievously

Menacingly

I moved to your side

Just to avoid your eyes.

If I could

I would tell you

That inebriation is the cue

With which I come through

To drink pieces of you.

I like treasuring you numb

I like being dumb

To all but your being

Equally drunk

On prying me out

Of the haze of noise

And smoke of humanity.

You're majestic

Each time I drink to desire.

If I could

I would tell you

That held hands

Are normal.

They're cool

Like all instances

Of pretended normality.

Holding hands is the only

Transcendence of morality.

Rest follows on its own

I hope it follows soon
On the same,
Pretended course of normality. 

If I could

I would tell you

That not writing to you

Is not an option

It is a curse

Customized

To our love.

As I write to you

I write you

An unbecoming tale

As I repeatedly fail

To say any of this to you.

If I ever could

Even then I wouldn't

Let you know

How easy and true

Was it to get through

This funny notion of love

I happily hold

As a recipe of remorse

I am adamant

To never share with you.

I'm forever keeping from you

The idea of you

I uniquely own

Whether you do, or not

Say 'I do'.

Come to Me

You ring in my mind
That turns blind
To the aberration
Our love, my love
Is causing in the Universe.
On this blemished landscape
Don’t become a curse
For incoherent rhythms
Beating within the hearts of hopes
Clinging on time-worn ropes
Suspended
From a hook never seen.
Come to me
Like the balancing chaos
Found on the rope I tread on
And the hope I nudge on
To reach you
As world and order crash all around me.

***

It’s been long
That the song
Of our love was hummed
In the chirps of lonely birds
By the cries of hurting herds
Echoing in the vanity of that look
Through the pages of a yellowing book
As yet unfinished
For words are scarce
And end uncertain.
Come to me
Like numbness in vocabulary
Like the need to say just the needed
Like empty spaces filled with dark silence
Like words that mean much,
While saying nothing.

***

I’m giving up the goal
But retaining the dream
I think you not a song
But a familiar scream
My soul lets out for comfort.
Voices are my friends
Reverberating through unlived
Unloved
Undone.
Come to me
Like the dark songs of desire
Like the forest quagmire
That sucks me in
To be freed into you.

***

The smell in my room
And the mustiness of memories
Are the same breed of torture
I willingly embrace
To hold you tight
In my slipping grip.
The past is tricky
For after ceasing
It conjures a future
That could scarce in this lifetime be.
Come to me
Like a memory unlived
Like the times yet to come
Like the moments that never were
Like past which ruins my present
And the future which is stubbornly absent. 

Painting by Leonid Afremov

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

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)