fireflies

fireflies

is where I started this journey

it was in a jar that

lights began twinkling

and it is now

almost an age later

that I drive through

under fireflies

which mark the moment

as the best part of the evening

one spent with friends

and deafening beats

but distance is what

creeps in

when you're not there

despite being there

distance creeps in

when your love hasn't

been yours

in as long as you remember

distance creeps in

when you haven't had a moment to

pause

to ponder

or just to do nothing

nothing at all

Jobs and Itunes

in your love, my salvation lies

in your love, my salvation lies

in your love, my salvation lies

in your love, in your love, in your..love

humming a tune

not known before

in your

life as you'd known it

stood beneath an

orange sky

these days

and nights

bought in exchange

for many a dreams

lost and shattered

i just feel

as if it's time

to pack and

leave

again

in transit

for the love of

brown eyes

and butter

and sanity

i will be found

again

when the locks

on my suitcase

are worn enough

and the souvenirs

from travels

stuck securely

to the fridge

when i have

home to come back to

and when friends

and the past

do not do this

on nights alone

in an empty house

the title now

makes sense

unintended

like the dent marks

we often put

on cars

and each other

in your love, my salvation lies

moonlit are the nights

gushing

and a lot of it

like the first

awkward moment

between you

and the one

you couldn't stop

thinking about

the night after

your first dance

you really did throw

your heels off

and dance like

a mad person

she tells you

how he still

gushes over

that one night

and inside

that eighteen-something-ness

takes over

you don't know

whether you wanna

turn old and grey

or stay right here

longing

and being longed for

summer songs

winter nights

monsoon rains

autumn leaves

and the colours

they bring

how many adventures

are you to bring

the smiles

and the tears

to continue

just don't

run out on me

dark highways and slanted faces

you are

my heart's

fulfillment

and there is

nothing left to

disagree with

one sole song

lasting me the

last hundred kilometres

it was you

just you

against the dark

unlit highway

it was you

against yellow beams

of travel

your face

and the meaning

of this existence

heavy eyelids

heavy from

exhaustion and

the hours between

now and when

you leave

there's been this night

and one last year

forever etched upon

me

my memory

not my playlist

a sunlit morning

i'm alone

but i'm not lonely

bring the sunshine

back to my eyes

wait for me

i'm not ready

to string words together

without music

to face cities

without you

as i turn page

over page

the thought

and smell

of my city

return

there's a different design

and purpose

behind that skyline

your fingers streak

sunsets there

as your breath

clouds my thoughts

i can only ink -

you can paint

Obituary of a friendship

With several hundred miles between us

Different landscapes

Different skies

Different sunsets and sunrises

This is the place

Where my road parts, my friend.

I have lost.

Yes, I have lost.

But my life has

A tune and a rhythm

A love to keep me

Warm through

Lonely winter nights.

And dreams

Filling my starry eyes.

I angle myself as to

Be able to see

The rearview mirror

Of my car

Driving on to the mountains

Bumpy roads

And thus this scrawl

On a sunny October morning.

when my soul embarks

My pieces of prose and poetry get a title later. Much after writing the whole way through. And the title is usually a line from the playlist at that moment. Life is much like that.

A half done tattoo.

Two weeks of separation.

Curiosity.

Turning your face away.

Crying within four walls.

Restlessness.

Vagabond feelings.

An unrecognizable face in the mirror.

Holding on.

Moving ahead.

Plans of drunkenness.

Lumps in my throat.

It is a half-written story. Changing course, finding meanders at every bend of the road. But there's only one life we get. And constant detours are going to take us only this far.

गुल्ज़ार

पूरे का पूरा आकाश घुमा कर बाज़ी देखी मैंने

काले घर में सूरज रख के

तुम ने शायद सोचा था

मेरे सब मोहरे पिट जायेंगे

मैंने एक चिराग जला कर अपना रास्ता खोल लिया

तुम ने एक समंदर हाथ में ले कर मुझ पर ढेल दिया

मैंने नूह की कश्ती उस के ऊपर रख दी

काल चला तुम ने और मेरी जानिब देखा

मैंने काल को तोड़ कर लम्हा लम्हा जीना सीख लिया

मेरी खुदी को तुम ने चंद चमत्कारों से मारना चाहा

मेरे एक प्यादे ने तेरा चाँद का मोहरा मार लिया

मौत की शह दे कर तुम ने समझा था अब तो मात हुई

मैंने जिस्म का खोल उतार कर सौंप दिया

और रूह बचा ली

पूरे का पूरा आकाश घुमा कर अब तुम देखो बाज़ी

Will you notice?

i will hold on hope

and i won't let you choke

Heartbroken. Broken. A broken mind.

One impulse. One fleeting minute. One weak moment.

Kudos to drunken nights?

i will not hear what you have to say

One look at the past.

At the simplicity and joy. At the harmony.

Tumultuous times have to end. Or kill.

Looking for defense mechanisms on your playlist. Sure sign of marbles already lost.

And depressed dusting, heavy eyelids galore.

It's an alien world. It's an alien writing this. Voices lost. Tears too inexpensive.

Screaming to be heard. With holes in your heart. And lost hope.

i know the shame in your defeat

Going back to the start? Going back to the truth. And me.

Wishful thinking.

cause i need freedom now

and i need to know how

to live my life as it's meant to be

redoing it

pigeons followed him

as he walked on

little bread crumbs

that he threw out

gobbled greedily

then one day

he stopped

having faith

in himself

his pigeons

and he said:

"fly"

see you soon

I've heard so many anecdotes, so many stories. So many words about you.

It's as if the process of giving up saw completion that Friday night.

I'm guessing you made it all happen. You made it all come true. That Friday night.

Some hours later, you were gone. And gone for good.

Leaving behind a million thoughts. Some happy shiny memories. From a childhood so far away. And some regrets.

And. A void.

A hundred blessings rise up, stretching their arms, trying to reach you. Hearts here hoping that wherever you are, you're in a better place. Breathing. Happy.

It's as if time has come to a stand still. Where everybody is quiet, all around, absorbing you and your words. Revering. Remembering. Some happy shiny memories, and some regrets.

Most of all, I see people in inertia, loved. By you. So so loved.

Your face smiles upon all of us. Simple.

Your words are read out for people to hear. Most of us are half-listening, half lost in thoughts. From a summer years ago. Or the last conversation they could have.

Larger than life, they say. Surreal, I say.

An ocean on fire, a mountain standing tall, ripe mustard in a vast field, and a calm river but ever-joyous.

No matter how hard I try, I'll never be able to put into words what you are. To me. To us.

Thank you for being my father.

I hope I've been a good daughter. Because for me, it's enough to be able to call myself your daughter.

Return

Am I packing?

Packing to leave?

Cause once the stuff is securely in bags and cartons which claim to be fragile, it's not gonna be easy to unpack. There isn't a second time.

I've always thought there is a certain romance to my journey. Especially for those who will never be able to trace me to, well, wherever I am at the moment.

A goodbye note shouldn't be written with aching nearly-broken knuckles. It should be happy - reminiscent of the times under grey skies while you always knew you belonged elsewhere. Where that is, who knows. Or cares.

A goodbye note.

Goodbye. For good.

There's hardly anything pinning me here anymore. And as I change track, spaces shall see a shift too. I'll carry all that's mine, you take all that's yours.

And we'll be back in the winter of 2009, when books written for girls were read by me. Memories envied. Photos longed for.

All that said and done, been there, done that.

Attraversiamo.

life size

words

that I only hear

but I'm sure

they talk of love

a love

separated by distance

and circumstances

a love

separated by geography

and constraints

a love

separated by human nature

and a habit

to continue habits

suffocation

sudden and tearing

glass doors open

to the sky

where two

young

and battered

each more than

the other

come together

even if only in spirit

what.

is.

not.

if at all.

questions

dozens of them

and an ever-growing pile

of work

and worries

in the usual humdrum

lost

with the usual humdrum.

Amusing Mr Keets

I read Neruda.

And Yeats.

Random piece of information, but it was a few years ago that I found Yeats was really Yates. Not Yeets. Nothing close to Mr 'Keets'.

Anyway. Not important. The point being - I read both Neruda and Yeats on the same night. Or a little before dawn, really.

I have Facebook and Gmail open on the same browser. What am I looking for?

Tonight. I was looking for tonight. A night. Any night.

The only highlight was watching Dumbledore die. And even that was depressing.

The word would be.. Anyway. Again.

Love is such a beautiful thing to read about. Or write about. Or imagine. As long as you don't have to deal with it, it's beautiful. Cause once you do, it just doesn't feel worth it.

I really wanted to write poetry. Cause this space is NOT a journal. But for tonight, which is really just another night, reading Neruda and Yeats and gasping at their ability to bring out the best in words will be it.

why?

calm

after the storm

gates thrown open

to insects

flying about

bumping into

the street lamp

monsoon rain droplets

illuminated by

mute white

as they rest

serene

on hanging wires

telephone

electric

various

and many

the scene outside

my window

is frozen

exhausted

unable to move

any more

no more

brightness

facing me

hurts eyes

and is reduced

a little bug

blown off

as it tracks

new paths

new life

mollycoddling

and melancholy

~ exterior ~

Love is over-rated. But is it?

Cause when you're intellectually convinced, you go back to check if you're emotionally convinced too.

Pictures.

Hundreds of them.

It's funny how things you need and things you want aren't the same. But then you probably knew this all along. Maybe not. All the while when you were writing yourself off, nobody reminded you second class isn't the way to do it. And maybe being second class for so long makes you believe there isn't another way. It's the same thing as telling the same lie a thousand times to convince people it's the truth. Somewhere the truth gets lost. Here the self got lost.

Without options. Without the option of even the self. Now c'mon - you would agree that's not asking for too much, this being the 21st century and all.

A thousand different things at the same time. Voices. Screaming. Louder. Louder. Louder. Blames. Accusations. Screaming. The "past". (What the hell is this past anyway? Cause it's too goddam complicated.) Louder. Drowning. Games. Strategies. Astounded. Louder.

Mess.

And there are things which you must consider. Why.

Upper case doesn't matter

There is a world

of poetry

Separate.

Usually accompanied by

brief spells of rain

or french songs

a cup of tea after

watching

the sun rise.

That world

talks most

of love

A love I don't feel

everyday, anymore.

I wonder

if it should worry me.

It doesn't.

I also wonder why.

What exactly it is

that make me

indifferent

apathetic.

Denial is

a thing of the past.

As is my naive heart

and that,

without wonder

worries me.

When you can't translate everything into poetry

A leafy arch overlooks

A tea stall tucked

Under the clouds

Stone tables

And stone benches

A pet dog sniffing

With curiosity

And an obvious grin.

Just then the clouds come in

Oblivious to surroundings.

Dragon flies against

The grey of the sky

And right there

With the sun in your eyes..

It's you.

Against the green

On a toy train, I skipped away

Curves and bends down the way.

It's a steep climb

There - you see the town in the valley

And just before that,

The train tracks you left behind

Running together.

Always together.

Reminding me of his take

On life. On love.

Right then I peep out

Of my toy train's

Toy window.

Into the sunlight.

An inch further.

Another inch further away.

And just then

His smile illuminates

The door he's standing at.

I'm a long way from home

And it's going to

Be a longer journey back.

as most cities are

Lightning demarcates

boundaries of clouds

blanketing this inky night.

It's a lonely city

as most cities are

an occasional passer-by

and a painful pull.

Transatlantic.

Who knows how much havoc

intermittent flashes of

lightning cause.

They sure light up the world

for a tiny second

here

and there.

But they're unaccompanied

by thunder.
Or rain.

Much like this city -

lone, alone.

They say everybody

grows up.

And grows hard and unforgiving.

Life then, I believe

was never a child.

And living - never child's play.

Where do you run?

As the world watched you.

Where do you hide?

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Exhausted.

bilateral relations in the wake of isolation

there

distant fireflies

twinkling

ever so intermittently

indicative.

light bugs

taking birth

as soon as

the first drops

of this rain

- awaited -

contact.

temporarily

unearthly

a union with

wisps of dark clouds

orange

- awaited -

a yellow

filters through

silhouettes of curtains

when so much

around

is in transit

this wind

the smell of it

remains

a lingering

and fervent hope

for sanity.

restore.

It's April

But that is no reason to write a post.

I'm just too sick of reading pseudo-patriotic cricket posts by everyone. And tired of trying to understand.

So I came back to what makes me most happy.

Me.

*big smiley*

It's high time this blog had a "Me" tag.

And I just realized it's raining.

It delighted me.

Delighted me to the point where I threw open my glass walls to the rain outside. The patter. The fragrance. Open to the romance of it.

That's when I made the call.

just go with the seasons

She viewed the world

through camera lens.

The beautiful

froze in her mind

indelible

unmoving.

He was at once

more pragmatic

more romantic.

Absolute.

But his eyes didn't move

to the things she looked at

things that enchanted

her

for his eyes were too transfixed on

the way her eyes moved

the way her hair came

on her face

slightly.

At once.

Don't listen to Santa too much!

So we sit talking of the Lotus Sutra.

Ain't a beginning.

Or an end to it.

The preface to nothing. The beginning of a big hollowness.

I want to put my finger on it nevertheless.

We take the beating to live through everyday.

And each day - we wait for the big thing to happen.

To arrive.

We wait our entire lives for nothing to happen.

When does it arrive?

When does it really happen? It's all a preparation for..?

But then again. It'd be a big cliche to say that the present is all we have to live for.

We have much more. We have nothing.

On the same continuum of thinking in terms of illusions.

I stopped making sense.

Long ago.

Flipside

There's a reason why

all the love songs

on my playlist

are lying ignored and dusty.

They feel

I don't love them.

Anymore.

god knows I want to break free

It just so happens

love of my life,

the roads I travel

and imagery

and phrases

I come across

greens and wild blues

inherently

become a part of me.

Increasing my love

for me.

Love of my life.

but life still goes on

fabuloso?

Human beings are strange.

Outright weird.

I certainly am.

Or so I'd like to believe.

I have a hundred synonyms for complicated. Just one antonym - simple.

Keep it simple. I don't know how many times I've heard that one.

The reason I keep returning to them. The reason I keep returning to this blog. The reason I miss myself. Just as if I can't return to the one thing that used to give any solace to me.

I regret throwing away the "I heart me" t-shirt now.

Not on loop

This love's all you and I got
to love and be loved
on end absolute
in the other, quite another.

...

This life's all you and I got
our time is short
who knows what the next corner
you turn, bring?

...

This is about lilies and ink
echoing your colours
happily, unhappily
even so.

It cannot wait

This song hasn't been loved by me in ages. Like an old once-upon-a-time loved shirt.

Things that have seen and carry with them the intelligence and foolishness, laughs and thoughts of the numerous days of sunshine. And those which weren't so sunny.

Suddenly you wake up to find that you can't fit into them anymore.

It breaks my heart to throw an old loved shirt out. It breaks my heart further when I wear that shirt for the sake of it. Just a day longer. For old times' sake.

For old times' sake.

But what have we thought in our not-so-sober moments? In our cmon-old-times'-sake moments?

there's no need to complicate

our time is short

this is our fate

Why we love, why we don't. Why we seek, why we recognize. Why we catch each other's eyes and turn away.

But then. Oh tell me why.

A second more than necessary.

And things that you take for granted, and like an idiot it crashes on you - when you're writing completely random things that you didn't even know your head housed.

my breath fogged up the glass

so i drew a new face

and laughed

Yep yep. Open up your mind.. See like me. Open your plans. Free.

After all, it IS your godforsaken right to be loved.

Jaana

Slipping away

and a tipsy moment

when all control is

willingly abandoned.

But then again

haven't I willing

abandoned?

Everything?

I'm in a place

where tugs aren't

strong enough

and roots

not deep enough.

Routine revisits.

And

et cetera.

...and what about women?

The first time a teacher inspired me to write. And write something which moves. Moves me.

Gives me the impression of swinging slightly on a vine on a grey monsoon day. Afternoon. With an empty house facing me.

Bringing me to this house. Home. Telling him about my brother getting married was hard.

More so cause I didn't know what to make of his "Oh."

This winter seems to have it's troughs. Dips.

I don't know how to deal with them. I try and I fall, overdoing and then holding back..never happy. Never true.

Aimless, wandering.

And then a form of liberation. Behen chod sutta.

Or maybe it was love

This was meant to be happy.

I swear to god it was meant to be happy.

As was life. Everyday. Happy.

Not darker as I delved deeper. Not brighter as long as I remained on the surface.

I turn to Ritter for comfort. Maybe we have the answers all along, but we just like looking for them. As an excuse for something to do. As an excuse to be human.

Walking between the racks in the library and taking books home - just cause the cover illustration is nice, or the woman on it beautiful - is something I've always done. And enjoyed.

I've loved rain, and cake batter. Wearing the same pair of jeans, creating ripples. Cocoons, a few songs I can hum, and drives around dusk. Fighting for inane reasons and laughing when I didn't want to. At all.

Yes, I've loved. Cause at the end of the day, the purpose of loving is the pounding it takes.

Ritter.