Melt

I have never been one to relate to those moments, where your throat is dry and your mind is blank and there is nothing you can say or do about it because your brain is not functioning properly and your mind doesn’t form thoughts coherent enough for you to voice them out loud, and you are just standing there, dumbstruck, opening and closing your mouth like a goldfish.

No. I think I belong to the other category, with the lesser percentage of people, where hundreds of thoughts are whirring inside your head like hundred clocks ticking and you don’t know which one to pay attention to because, according to you, all are important and you have some extra one’s like, ‘hey! that could have been better if it went like this’ and I anticipate your and my reaction to the situation already contemplating how to act out my reaction because I’ve already guessed the outcome of it all.
Hell! I’d even thought of an escape plan for covering up in case I speak out loud a wrong thought out of the hundred ones buzzing through my head like electricity through a silver wire.

I don’t associate myself to the larger population, who’s mind, when kissed, stops completely and you feel weak enough to not be able to stand on your own to feet.
Two seconds into the kiss and I’m thinking of what it would feel like if you did not have that little stubble and if your lips were fuller. Another thought buzzes past and is already forgotten and then I’m staring at your closed eyes, marvelling at how your lashes brush against your cheek and all I want to do is to reach up and stroke your eyes  but then you’re already pushing your tongue on my lips seeking entrance into my mouth, and when I taste you, I wonder what you had eaten last and how your tongue tangles with mine and there is so much more going on inside my head when I’m gazing at the soft freckles on your nose and under your eyes and then I feel your hand sliding down my back and onto my butt, squeezing it, while I’m now thinking of what I taste like to you, and then I lose myself completely when you open those pretty eyes and gaze into mine, waiting for me to say something, whether you should continue or stop, whether I like this or not. But then I find myself standing there, completely dumbfounded, no words escaping my lips even if there are a thousand thoughts swirling inside my head.

 

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Pukaar

I see you taking off your belt,
removing it from the shackles of your trousers
wearing a scary look on your face,
ready to lash at me with it.
Only because my words stung you, right?

But aren’t there too many of us?
So many, that even if your belts are torn and ripped,
we’ll stay, bleeding, but words unwavering.

You then take away my paper,
Make me work longer, harder.
Pointing empty drafts and bills at my head,
forcing me to survive on water,
stirring empty pots and drinking from empty pitchers.

You took away my land,
you have almost taken away my religion too.
You want me to follow you, don’t you?

When your bullets were piercing through the
bodies of my mates, children, wives,
where was your religion?
Was it not there, looming in the depths and shadows
of your dark, merciless eyes?

How could you not feel, the slightest bit of apprehension
when you so casually made slits into our uniformity;
dividing us, forming castes, breaking unity?

And while we are at it, let’s not forget
the inter-caste wars, love, marriages,
killings, when the father saw to it that
his daughter was burnt to death, along with her lover?

You also took away opportunities,
chances from my offspring, making them
redundant, unable to go out into the world,
stealing their pages, pens, ink.
What would they know of the world,
when they didn’t know how to read and write?

Your corrupted mind,
pulling money out of my pockets,
not admitting my child in your schools
and colleges without an opaque donation,
a transparent bribery.

I’m home, waiting for your call,
the acceptance letter in your hands,
lies unhanded to me,
your lame excuses, poor reasoning,
I’m fed up of it all.

And then you look into my eyes,
emotional against emotionless.
Which one’s are yours, which are mine?
After all you have done,
How do you expect sentiment to be in mine?

Birthdate

I will never forget your birthdate,
’cause that’s how we met,
And that meeting led to a series
of giggles, and people looking at
us like we’re cray.

Jumping ecstatistically, laughing so
hard that our shoulders shake
and our tummies ache.
Who knows? May be that day you
walked silently down the street
and I asked you your residence,
was written for us to meet.

I am thankful for that, those
memories after, running behind

trains, saving drowning bottles,
mini-parties after spending our
last reserves, sighing as trains
pass by as we wait for each other.
Hugging at the bridge like that’s
our last meeting, and that’s for
only about a day, phone calls
lasting an hour, and,
those memories,
are endless.
They’ll go on and on,
just like my love for you.
Forever is not a choice, it’s
more of a compulsion. You
have my heart and we
need much more than
wearing shoes compulsorily
because they clack against
the cemented platform and
private coaching institutes in the
train and holding hands and
sleeping on your shoulder
and some more which I
cannot put into words
for how grateful I am
for your birthdate, forever
to go.
Always yours, Love.

Peas in a Pod

When I look back on how we’d met, I remember
staring into deep black eyes,
resembling an undiscovered abyss.

I remember asking you your name,
I remember asking you again,
because I just couldn’t pronounce it!

Now, it’s funny, may be
because I still can’t pronounce it right.

Now that I reflect on those memories,
created months ago,
I remember how we’d bunked for the first time.
I remember how we’d clicked photos and wandered around,
not knowing our way around
the new mysterious place we called college.

I remember staring into your deep dark eyes,
that endless abyss,
and opening up to you.
I remember how you made me feel comfortable
in that brand new hell hole.

How we’d go everywhere together.
Do everything together,
and we still do.

How we grew so close,
almost like,
peas in a pod,
those memories, those experiences.

How I made you learn my signature,
How I’d make you wait,
How I’d drag you to the canteen,

I remember hearing that laugh,
full of warmth, mirth, and uncritical
at my poor sense of humour.

You’ve cried with me at my worst,
and you’ve rejoiced in my happiness.
You’ve hugged me at my lowest,
and you’ve hugged me at my highest.

I bet I’ll never find someone like you,
You’ve etched yourself to be a part
of my soul, my memories, my everything.

We’ve made so many memories,
they’ll take up an entire novel.
But, take my word for this,
never will I leave you, ever.
May be we’ll create a sequel to our imaginary novel.

Cheers to you, gujjuben.
Forever yours,
Love.

The Spotlight

  • Have you ever realised,
    how apt is the phrase, that goes
    “May I bring to your notice…”, is?
    Because it does do that.
    It tells us too see what we once overlooked,
    and never fails in helping us grow.
    For we have these new possibilities
    Of seeking and seeing and discovering new things,
    that were so unnoticed by everyone,
    Yet you stand out proudly in the spotlight
    And yell out to the world.
    And in return you are showered with so much of attention.
    That may be, only sometimes,
    You grow weary of the attention,
    And may be, only sometimes,
    You want to crawl back into being unnoticeable, hiding behind dark shadows
    Only to follow in their footsteps.
    When someone may bring you to their notice,
    Or may stumble on you.
    For who knows, you’re not a leader, you’re only a shadow lurking in a deep
    dark abyss,
    And you’re meant for it.
    But that one ray of sunshine, that one speck of dust that moved away when you had someone’s attention,
    Enough to prevent you from being rusty
    And smile and please.
    But may be, only sometimes,
    You are done with it all.
    You crawl back into safety,
    Away into that deep dark abyss.
    The spotlight is for someone else now.