When lockdown ends The flowers that have grown on my bedcover Will crawl back into their still shapes The grey floor that has stretched into miles Will squeeze back into the 10×10 room The hours that have become endless Will trap themselves inside the watch When lockdown ends I’ll come out of a Dali painting
And I’ll ask (perhaps in vain) Am I still the same? My mind tends to forget the worst She keeps me away from my own ghosts When lockdown ends Will it make sense, if I find That in the corners of my mind Greyish blue patches of memory have disappeared Forgetfulness spreading like fungus on old bread Where did the time go? Where did I? Where am I?
I might go round in circles When the lockdown ends Will I be able to make amends To those who I might have lost Might have crossed Out from my life When I perhaps dissolved in my endless room It is the season of doom, after all.
This is a little different from my usual posts. I mostly post poems here but I tried writing a short story this time. I hope you like it. ^_^
The coffee cup before me looked like the dirty puddle of rainwater I had splashed my foot into, an hour ago. You would think my day was ruined, but frankly, I had it coming. Who wears white on a rainy day? I didn’t really mind the brown patches that stained the hem of my kurti. It would make a nice conversation starter. “Oh hey, you have mud on your dress!” they’d say, smiling, and before they comment further on the gloomy weather, I’d chime in, “Haha, I’m so awkward…I didn’t see the pothole and stepped right into it,” I might even tuck my hair behind my ears and adjust my glasses- because, oh I’m so nervous and clumsy, don’t you see? People dig that, especially boys. It makes them think we need them. Well, I guess we do, otherwise why am I at a cafe waiting for my date?
I glanced at my phone. It was twenty past five. He had told me he’d meet me at five thirty, and his Instagram bio read ‘Meticulous| Merry| Marvel fan’. As much as you shouldn’t trust Instagram bios or any self-proclaimed declarations about one’s own conduct, I figured he would be punctual. I had reached the cafe by five, because I had wanted to look settled-in. A date is like a job interview, or worse; especially when it’s almost a blind date, so I needed myself to steady myself in a room full of strangers. That’s what a cafe is, isn’t it? Whatever soothing music you can hear in the background, don’t you feel eyes on you every second in a public place like that? The eyes of a stranger who you’ll potentially date are the heaviest of them all.
I had known him only for a day, after all. After I broke up with Rohan, I thought I was done with relationships, done with love, blah blah, all that nonsense that fills your brain right after you’ve dumped a piece of shit after realising (after six long years of not realising) what a piece of shit he was. The man sitting at the table to my right was holding a guitar by his side. It took me back to the hours we spent bunking classes and singing our lungs out on Rohan’s cousin’s terrace. I realised how much I missed that bunch of friends, and I heaved a sigh. The thing about nostalgia is, it somehow starts with making you happy but leaves you far worse than you were before. I wondered who he was singing to now, which of the two girls with whom he had cheated on me, or was there a new fresher he was advancing his friendly arm to. I looked away.
I sipped my coffee and pretended to read the novel I had brought with me. My date and I – we spoke about our love for reading, and I didn’t want to be a liar. I might not have touched a novel in more than five years or so, but I can surely bank on my adolescent years when I was indeed an avid reader. How do I explain that I was in love with books once, but that love has faltered? How do I tell him that I have an attention span shorter than the breath of a sparrow, that I skim through movies and series without actually taking anything in? It’s not easy to explain to anyone how day by day everything outside turns to nothing inside. It’s easier, in fact, to try to remember how you used to be, and maintain a facade solid enough to make the others think that you’re interesting enough, if not enough.
A loud noise of thunder crashed my train of thoughts. In a moment, a heavy downpour began. I looked at the hazy city outside the big glass doors of the cafe, and I asked myself, when was the last time I emptied myself, the way that the sky seems to do so easily? My friends were concerned when the break-up didn’t make me cry. To be honest, even I was surprised at myself. Surely something as grave as parting from a boyfriend of six years calls for some tears? It reminded me of that line from Tennyson’s poem- “She must weep or she will die.” I didn’t weep, so, did I die? In the poem the woman had lost her husband, a warrior in battle, and she was tear-less in shock. I had lost my love, but perhaps I wasn’t in shock. Somehow, I had always known. An individual is not a whole, there are so many selves inside one, don’t you think? I think that the betrayed lover, the girl who was never enough, has been hiding inside me since forever. Sometimes her imaginations come true, and I feel that I have known it all along.
It was quarter to six already, was he stuck in the rain? I picked up my phone to call him but I put it down. Of course he was trapped in the rain, I should be patient. I could see the waiter looking at me and my searching glances at the door, and I would bet any money that he was smiling at my loneliness. Perhaps he wasn’t smiling at all. Or was it because of my muddy dress? I can never tell what it is about me that makes all the mouths around me twist into a crooked smile- my large unshapely body, my blank perspiring face, or the ridiculous way that I walk. It sounds like a wretched conspiracy that the world has hatched against me, but I’d like to think it’s all in my head. No one should care enough to judge me in this busy city. Thank God I don’t live in a small town that thrives on petty gossips, I pity those who do.
I looked at my half-empty coffee cup and put down the book. I don’t even like coffee, why did I buy it? Then I remembered, I always drink coffee on early dates. It doesn’t do well if you’re not into coffee, how else are you supposed to gaze at each other inside a beautiful little cafe- where couples come to discover and rediscover their emotional connection over lengthy chats and romantic strumming of the guitar in the background. I hated myself for being dishonest with myself this way. It isn’t a crime not to like coffee. No one would bat an eye if I said I hate coffee. But how could I say so, when he was clearly so excited for me to try the coffee here? I’m sure it wouldn’t really break his heart if I said I don’t drink tea or coffee or whatever, but I’m sure it would break me before I could say that to him. I have an unhealthy need to please others, my friends often remark. It’s not that I can’t be a bitch, but I need to set my heart that I will be a bitch, you know? My phone buzzed. Was it him? I checked my phone. It was my best friend, she sent me a meme. I hadn’t even told her that I was on a blind date. I was a hundred per cent sure that she’d call me suicidal, since this guy could very well be a catfish, a serial killer – and what not. I didn’t usually behave this way. I had been using a dating app for a month now and the guys I had talked to the most, I had made sure to virtually stalk all of them. Of course any girl would do that. But something had come over me the previous evening. I was tired of everyone, tired of talking to a bunch of guys who were talking to a bunch of girls and we all seemed to a drowning in the dating pool.
Suddenly this one guy had texted me, telling me he had decided to go on a date with the very first girl that appears on his feed. I had happened to be that girl, apparently. The sceptic that I am, I asked him whether he had been texting the same thing to all girls he could find, to which he was unsurprisingly offended, and gave me his Instagram id and immediately deleted his dating app account. I was quite amused and surprised, it felt like a breath of fresh air; I almost seemed to have pushed my head out of the oppressing water and an arm seemed to be waiting outside to pull me up. I forced myself not to think much about anything else. We had an engaging conversation for an hour or two, and I decided to give this a shot.
It’s not impossible for this guy to turn out to be a serial killer indeed, or at the very least the usual quintessential creepy guy. But I didn’t want to think about that. It would only make it worse; after all I was already there. He wasn’t, yet. It was almost six o’clock. I debated whether I should finally send him a text, and that’s when I found that my cellular network was gone, even the cafe WiFi didn’t seem to work at all. So much for a fancy cafe, huh. What would I do now? It was still raining outside, but the downpour had thinned into a slow drizzle. The rain holding up my date was too boring. What if he was secretly a superhero, busy saving some helpless little boy from a speeding bus? Perhaps he was someone only I could see, an apparition- hundreds of years old- who had materialised again into human form only to enjoy the pleasures and pains of love. I laughed at my superfluous daydreams. I tried to imagine what he would be like. The very little time that I had known him gave me the impression that he was more or less an average guy, with perhaps an unusual urgency to meet a stranger like me. He was funny, but not too edgy, he was appreciative and nice without being redundant in his greetings and niceties. He was polite and seemingly decent. What struck me the most about him was his intensity of wanting to form passionate human connections. He seemed so eager to meet me that you’d think we were long lost friends, who must meet before time runs out and each has to catch their flights going opposite ways. But who was he, really? A two-hour conversation might entirely be a facade, and I sure do know how easy it is to pretend to be someone you’re not.
Was I being stood up? I had managed to keep these awful doubts away from my mind, but he was supposed to be here a long time ago. The sky had cleared by now, and darkened at the same time with the tresses of nightfall. The fears of the insecure girl inside me came true after all. I called the waiter and paid the bill, struggling to wear a nonchalant customer-like expression on my face, reminding myself that he had no way to know that I was supposed to meet someone. Looking happy was too suspicious, I tried to look busy – as if my time for a cosy solitary evening at a cafe was finally up and I must get back to my normal, hectic life. I stepped out of the large glass door that now revealed beautiful yellow inlaid lights. I opened my phone. A bunch of messages, none from him. The newsfeed read that heavier rainfall and thunderstorm was to be expected in the next few days. Oh, and it reported the death of a young man in Kolkata by thunder strike.
If you were here with me
You'd compare the workmen next door
Who drill on my eardrum every hour
With the woodpecker
In your grandparents' backyard in the village
On a silent sultry afternoon.
I would ask you once again
"Tell me how you said-
How you used to play-pretend
To make ice-cream out of mud?"
You'd burst out a little laugh
We'll re-enact your childhood glee
That cherished memory
Of rubbing earth on face
The best 'chocolate', eh?
It is too late now
I forgot to go inside
Now I have tears in my eyes
I'm sure my neighbour saw me crying.
I had come to the balcony
To water my plants
But the past turned to water.
I am not surprised
How ever hard I try
I cannot think of you these days
Without the streaming tears
That always appear-
Yesterday I saw you sister at the market
I couldn't face her
I thought I had gotten better
But her happy little family-
It was too much for me.
Everything's a mystery
How the sun still rises
How cars move past my body
How I see you everywhere
I could see your face even on a TV ad.
I am not sad
I am not even mad at you
Or anyone
That you're gone.
How many years has it been?
Or was it yesterday?
I cannot remember.
But I remember you
I remember everything you ever said to me
Every sweet little word you said dotingly
Every office anecdote
Every harsh word you spoke, too.
But we always made up in the end
After dealing with the pain-
We still do.
You aren't with me anymore
Anyone would say so
They won't understand
I think no one can.
I could try to tell them
You're a part of me now
Like the stars are a part of the night
Even though the city spreads her smog
The stars don't die
They just hide.
Let them not be a part
Of our hide-and-seek
I believe you're still here with me
As long as I keep you inside
You will never die.
“Who will be my home?” Everyone looks outside the window and asks. But I can’t remember what a home is, Is it my mind, my body, my family, my city, my country? I’ve been a stranger everywhere, Often enough to ask like a little child What is a home? Home is the person you love, they say, The person you return to after a day of rain and hailstorms, The arms you hide inside when the world comes out to swallow you whole. It’s not that I don’t know what a home is I can’t feel it. All I can understand with my massive joke of a brain Are stories. You and I, we’re stories, we’ve always been Some are more than that, they are dreams. Therefore I’ve stopped searching for a home (After years of walking along aimless alleys and lanes which lead nowhere) I’ll start stringing words and actions into tales Only hoping they’ll connect me to a story that I can call mine So the next time I put on sad, soothing music And look out of the window I’ll ask “Who will be my story?”
I don’t know what it is to be a daughter They say that blood runs thicker than water But why is it that I feel no ties? I look at my mother and I see it in her eyes The pure, unconditional love she bears I know ‘motherhood’ has been glorified for years Their sacrifices becoming not a choice but a consequence. Yet unmistakably I’ve seen love in her, hence Her love must make me a daughter? There have been days when I have thought her Love for me was misplaced, a mistake Because despite my desire to reciprocate I’ve let my heart be an impassive stone Despite her love, I have felt alone. My father does listen to what I have to say But smiles at my concerns, at the end of the day I’m not the older son whose advice holds sway And not until my brother had to move away Did I become my father’s right hand Despite a daughter, (almost) a dependable young ‘man’. I was twelve when one day I served him tea Without being asked to, and he Smiled sweetly and said “It’s great You’re finally learning how a daughter should behave.” What it is to be a daughter I don’t know yet I’m putting together pieces from the society’s set Of rules and do’s and don’ts I can find So that one day I can have my peace of mind.
There’s nothing new under the sun There’s nothing new about my pain, longing, love Nor in my desire to be unique. There’s nothing new in my poem, When I say I’ve been blue to have missed you Red to have kissed you Black to have forgotten you and myself I’m only rewording what I’ve said Maybe a hundred years ago, Even a thousand, who knows? The gnawing hunger in my mind To compose the poem to end all poems To create it all and consume it all- Is a spectacular piece of comic nonsense I laugh, louder and louder till my lungs bitterly burst And I’m finally empty again- A quill with no ink A blank word file A waste of time.
I’m well aware of the stupidity of ‘falling in love’
Text, talk, date and mutual disappointments-
We’ve all been there, done that.
This time, let’s go all the long way to forever
I’m tired of having to stitch my heart again on my sleeves, love,
I’m too tired to mope around and weep,
Look at my eyes while I ask with a smile,
Will you be mine to keep?
If you wish so
I’ll take a break from my prosaic presence.
Let me whisper into your ears-
Oh my dear, you’re a sacred dream
The only God at my altar, my only King,
The strength of your ardent soul’s embrace
Exhilarates me in unspeakable ways.
Your smouldering eyes beckon me to stare
We look deep in our hearts, and our souls are laid bare.
Roses bloom as our fingers intertwine,
I become yours and you become mine-
Or, wait, are you too smart for my art?
Or too broken perhaps.
Sweet words sound soothing,
But I know too well, don't I?
How swiftly they lose their sweetness
And turn into twisted jokes,
Reverberating in the empty chambers of the heart at 3 a.m.
When I end up inevitably alone
When the darkness is quiet, and everyone’s long gone
Only the moon shining down on me through the window
Softly caressing me and my pain.
So, I ask again,
Before I tie up my heart and lock it to sleep,
Will you love me whole,
Will you be mine to keep?
Nobody told me how to look up From the road filled with grey, Stretching and stretching into eternity And look into the world Into People. Sheer crowds of them Moving in a steady fast pace
I lock my eyes with a man and my heart leaps Not in joy, There are no butterflies in my stomach No love in my heart My heart leaps like I’d like to leap into an abyss. The glance of the man Lasts only for a fraction of a second He looks away And I start looking at myself What did he see? That fraction of a second costs me a lifetime Of mapping my body, my gestures, my posture Measuring what I am and what I should be Measuring to fit in But sticking out like a sore thumb.
Nobody told me how to look straight Into the mirror And not want to be someone else. I resist the urge to shatter it into pieces The glass is spotless and devoid of cracks I am not No one is.
I lock my eyes with myself I travel back in time to all the promises I had made Pointing fingers at the mirror Pep-talk for the self. The mirror stays at the same place Neither have I gone any further Only the years have gone by. The one standing on the other side calls me a liar and a cheat I admit defeat And put out the lights.
Nobody told me how to look down Into the screen And not compare myself to every standard set. Scrolling up and down Sighs of despair and unfulfillment Oh the disparity.
I lock my eyes with the girl on the screen With eyes as blue as the times when I’m feeling down Figure as enchanting as non-existence is to me Skin as smooth as the paper I accidentally cut my fingertip with Smile as bright as sun on a scorching summer day. Even while I fight the Euro-centric bias Perpetuated in our minds I wonder why some get to be so perfect And more importantly, Why some get to decide what’s perfect.
Nobody told me how to look inside Get out of my head And get over myself.
“How was your day?” . . In the mornings When my mother starts her day in the kitchen And my father looks for the newspaper All I want is an excuse.
An excuse to pause the day, even before it has begun.
“Halt!” I say to Mr.Time. Mr.Time wears a suit and a tie With glasses as thick as icecubes Perched on his rigid nose. He slaps me hard and shouts like a war general “Yes,Sir!” I come back to my senses.
The day goes on and on and on Like a thriller movie in slow motion, Devoid of background music. Deja vu Every moment a facsimile of some other one.
There’s a cadence to monotony If you have the ear for it. Sometimes I do, don’t you too?
Before long, I get lost In other worlds freshly manufactured Where facts don’t matter, Mr.Time is banned, And I am free.
But I’m no God, no Creator Almighty My thinly framed bubbles of thoughts Fade away like half-remembered memories Oh so quickly Poof! And I’m back again. Nothing makes sense yet, but at least I’m back to my senses.
Ringing voices vibrate in my ears Boys grinning with their mouths wide open Girls leaning onto each other Tearing up into giggles. The dusky sky and the dazzling streetlights Coexist with different ideals of beauty I keep my eyes open For every sight.
We call it a day. I make my peace with Mr.Time He smiles at me like a benevolent captor I smile back. . . “My day was great, how was yours?”
