Surrender

The train that has reached, 

its destination. 
Tracks end here.
Remains of many journeys
rattle under the seats;
are being swept away.
Mains switched off now.
surely the morrow brings possibilities,
of new journeys? 

The house that has been,

emptied.

Hollow sounds echo. 

whitewashing,

can remove stains on walls.

what of hearts,

haunted by memories? 

Not real anymore. 

cannot hearts make homes? 

The box of paints that has

dried up.

Brushes scratch the bottom,

in vain,

As the canvas waits. 

cannot the sound of the scratch-

and the smell of canvas-

and the taste of blood-

and the touch of death-

paint

-what is waiting to come alive? 

This summer,

the village again sees the river bed.

cracked and calloused. 

its the first summer,

she's noticing it,

on the other side of childhood. 

The villagers

point to the signs.

saying, the rains will come. 

he panics. chokes. 

Lugs buckets of water,

from their summer stores,

and pours it in! 

from time to time

the futility hits her,

leaving her emptier than the river bed,

if that's possible. 

he sits on the river bank,

looking at the circling birds,

picking up a wet smell in the air,

and listens to the crick-crick of insects. 

Drawing up her knees,

she settles down to wait.

Perhaps the rains will come.

For now, she takes a breath

allowing it to seep in

through the emptiness. 

Writing

My first love.
My better half.
My greatest romance,
I met you perhaps
When I was 6 or 7.
You took me to a forest
And made me it's Princess.
Sitting on that Madurai terrace
With its interesting
Nooks and crannies.
I could understand
All the animalSpeak
And they understood me.
Under that darkening sky,
I was alone;
And yet not at all.
Lost in the sounds and sights and smells
Of the forest;
In finding you,
I found myself that day,
When I was 6 or 7.
I started writing!
"I am the Princess of the forest...."
I won't go further, don't worry,
Into the strange pathways
Of the 6 or 7-years old forest.

As expected,
The romance of the first years
Is unbelievable, isn't it?
My autocorrect typed in - "unreliable".
Freudian slip, that?
Romancing you,
I poured poetry and my soul
Into a zillion pages.
Well, at least a fifty of them.
Into a thick diary,
Which saw its early death
In one of the many passages,
Through rented houses
That middle class Indian families
Go through like a pack of cards.
Childhood gone too early,
I didn't know to grieve my diary.
I replaced the romance
With expectations,
As expected.

You stayed with me,
As I wandered through Life.
Even as I took you
For granted.
We met under the night sky sometimes
With the stars and the moon
And the solitary plane.
We met,
When I searched everywhere
For my specs,
And then found them in my pocket!
We met,
When I felt like it,
When I got sad,
When I wanted to impress someone,
or make them laugh.
When excitement filled the air,
Or perhaps melancholy.
You taught me humour,
And looking closely.
You taught me to do Life,
While I made you wait.

I decided,
That I wanted marriage.
I planned much
For all its trappings.
Complete with a house,
Garden, children and dogs,
Dimming lights for romantic evenings,
And bean bags for rainy days.
Red oxide flooring and earthern ware,
As local as possible,
For that is sustainable. ..
But dreams were also made up of:
Vacations in Bhutan and Srilanka
For I wanted to understand neighbours.
Foreign to myself slowly,
And you as well.

Somewhere,
Along the way,
I don't know where,
All of a sudden,
I found you gone.
And panicked.
You then came and went
As you pleased.
I threw tantrums
Kicked and screamed
Till I was blue.
Kicked some more,
Screamed some more,
Cried a whole lot more...
You seemed to soften
And said, "look closely"
And much to my chagrin,
Went away again!
Paths dried up,
Garden withered,
Poof!
The castle in the air,
Became one with it.
Dark all around,
Dimming lights be damned!
The rest of that story,
As they say is history.
Or Herstory,
Of losing and finding herself.

Flash forward to present.
I am sitting with you,
You still inspire me
To be my best.
You say,
"All I want is,
Your attention.
Your presence.
Be with me.
Whatever follows,
Follows."
Watching,
An innocuous mug
In an innocuous bathroom,
Get filled with water,
The sound,
Changing as the mug
Gets from empty to full-
When I am with you,
I am no longer innocuous.

I redo,
My vows with you.
I want nothing,
Out of you.
I want nothing,
Because of you.
I would much rather
Have these moments
Of sitting with you
And having you
Do Life, do me,
In my most private moments.
I would much rather
Just have you along,
For the conversation
And company,
As I get squished in a crowded bus,
Or am triggered by a commercial ad,
Feeling loved amongst friends,
Or like a worm after a shouting match,
Satisfied after a successful workshop,
Not getting enough FB likes!
Or getting too much,
Of unwanted counsel....
I just want you to be.
Through it all.

Garbage everywhere,
Overflowing bins too small
To hold,
the world's unresolved emotions.
When I feel too small,
And inadequate...
Or too big, grandiose --
Or anybody in between,
Spewing out garbage-
Nonetheless,
You hold me
Through it all.
Making life art
Making new meaning,
Making over,
Making love,
You make me art. 

Imperfect Love

A human I think,
Wants to be just loved.
I want to be loved,
For me being me.

I want you to love me,
For being me.
All that I am,
Warts and all,
As they say.
I promise,
I will do the same.

You did that, didn't you?
I did that, didn't I?
Love. Warts and all?
All those years back.
But then, here's the truth.
Who was the real me,
Who loved you?
Who was the real you,
Who loved me?
Did I know me,
All those years back?
Did I love me then?
To expect you to do so?!

It takes lifetimes of a life,
To dig deep;
Doesn't it?
Who am I really,
Who loves you?

And yet, all I want
Is for you to love me,
Despite me!
If I ask you,
Why do you love me?
I don't want answers.
I want you to tell me,
"Hell! I have no clue why.
But I love you,
All of you."

Here,
I throw away my masks -
Of aspirations,
Of ideals,
Of identicalities,
Of dependencies.

And stand naked,
In glorious Imperfection.
Can you love me?
"A challenge to Compassion",
Says Joseph Campbell.

 The perfect human -
S(he) is a myth.
Cast aside the bedtime story then,
And come to my bed.
Let's celebrate our differences,
In togetherness;
Come to my bed then,
To make true love.
Sweaty, messy, clumsy, Real.

A Loneliness

A loneliness.
It manifests differently,
With different people.
A loneliness.
It has different flavours,
In different contexts.
A loneliness.
It smells and feels uniquely,
Rendering the environment.
A loneliness, nevertheless.

Sometimes when it is there,
I can want it to be.
I am settled in it.
I am watching this –
The settling.
The loneliness allows it.

Sometimes it’s there;
And I don’t want it.
I am feeling heavy, intense.

Sometimes,
It just creeps up on me,
And then, there is so much space.

This loneliness,
It’s like a separate entity –
Standing apart,
Yet within me.

Sometimes,
I love and welcome it,
this aloneness inside.
It frees me somehow
And melts the chains
holding my heart tight.
I breathe,
And fly.

Sometimes,
it makes me want to cry.
there’s a hollowness
in my gut.
But my chest and throat,
they are clogged up,
with Emotion?

But,
I am not inside the emotion.
It is in me.
The aloneness allows this.

There are all these other times
When I just don’t know,
don’t feel, this aloneness.
I would be all alone,
at home or in the park
But I simply cant find it –
this aloneness.
Just a gazillion forms
shifting, writhing and twisting in me;
and I am drifting this way and that.

And then there can be a time,
in the middle of a crowded room,
much like this one –
the loneliness in another,
the aloneness she is inhabiting
is clear, evident;
and all at once,
I am right in there,
in that lonely, alone space
in my heart.

I am in it,
and it is in me.