I like looking at my half-lit face A vapid reflection on the bookshelf glass I see the knowledge gained So that some knowledge is lost Outside my window I can reach out I’ll almost touch the blank wall But it doesn’t reflect me Not even a half-frown or a straight smile.
To the poets who can sing of stories In the breath of history I am all ears in appreciation But where am I in the conquered wombs And the raging warriors Where am I in the forests of civilisation How did I swim in the stories And emerge with a parched skin?
I am closing my soul to every word Hosting parties for them as guests I am not the modern living Nor the past undead.
I hate that I love myself Even when I can’t. At me the looking glass gapes With a shadow as lifeless As the idol’s eyes in the temple Looking straight beyond me When I once used to pray
I hate that I look at the glass Harder and harder Trying to imagine myself into An aesthetic self A wise woman A smiling soul Bubbling with joy With a contagious smile
I hate that I make myself believe I need not be anyone else My reflection is flawed but never me Only the glass could be purer Oh I couldn’t be surer
But I hate that I don’t love myself As soon as my coerced conception Breaks into pieces The illusion shattering into shards of glass Piercing me everywhere And I’m back again
Stranded in the dark alley Sitting with my knees bent Drenching in the never ending rain.
Monsoon breeds rainy eves Outside I hear, raindrops scream Like lovers with fiery passion With almost a violent motion They rush to kiss the earth. Their watery bodies Shaped like exclamation marks Strike the ground.
There’s no other sound I’d rather listen to. Oh how I enjoy To drown my thoughts More often than not With steady noise.
Hit me with the rain Do away with words I’m so tired of your questions Knocking on my door Over and over again Drench me in rain!
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.
A long time back when I was a rather ruthless child,
I found a scared baby sparrow in our balcony.
I harboured anger against them, the little chirpy birds
They stole and ate every flower bud that our plants gave birth to.
This little piece of feathery enemy sat there like a blob of confusion
And I decided to have some fun with it.
I meant to scare it a little
Have my revenge
Then feed it some puffed rice using tweezers
Until it learnt to fly and join its mafia gang of the flower-eaters.
I am being candid when I say
There was absolute malice in my smile
When I approached the tiny trembling bird
And shouted “SHOO” at it.
I knew it would be scared shitless
But ha! Where would it go, flightless little blob of feathery meat?
As I looked at it, basking in its helpless hazard, I saw-
It gathered all the strength it could conjure;
In a motion that was a mixture of rolling, running and gliding,
It moved through the gaps in the banisters of the balcony railing
And fell down two storeys
Straight to its death.
The evil smile that I had, turned into a gape of horror
What had I done?
It has been years since I killed the bird,
Yet it returns to me every time I’m in a room full of strangers
My first instinct being
To roll-glide-run
And plunge to death.
“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?”
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?”
On some days, I close my eyes- And it becomes a summer evening. I laugh and smile like only children can afford to, Fresh green grass tickles my tiny bare feet. I sit on the swing, my eyes steadfast on the golden sky Gearing up to reach as high as I can To outdo my brother Who got bored of swinging And is now playing football in the other half of the park. The evening smells like dirt, Sounds like mosquitoes, And feels like a breeze. As the sky turns into ink, Birds begin to hurry like pedestrians in a busy city, Returning to their nests; And the two of us return home To watch some cartoons, Have some snacks, And fight over both.
On some days, I close my eyes- And I’m in a classroom Blue walls, blue desks, grey floor and a blackboard A trail of words leaving the teacher’s lips And going straight out of the window like unruly toddlers crawling too fast; Every head is either dozing off or buzzing with mischief. A girl secretly holds her boyfriend’s hands under the desk And everyone within a three meter radius Throws them a knowing smirk. Five minutes till recess- becomes a reason enough to be stupidly happy Although my friends and I have only been playing games, Cracking jokes, and doodling all over The precious last pages of the notebook. The long-awaited bell rings loud and clear, Followed by an epidemic of smile and relief.
On some days, I close my eyes- And I don’t want to open them again. Everyone seems out of reach Every situation, out of hand. I open my eyes and shut them again To remember the times When the world wasn’t upside down to me When happiness was so real that I could almost touch it When I was enough for myself. Maybe I still am- There’s a breeze outside The birds still return home tweeting goodnight And the bell hasn’t rung yet All I can do is keep scribbling on the last few pages of my notebook And everything will be fine.
mimimusing 