I read a little something today,
the writing stretched to about
three pages, and I wished I could
pen something down, just enough to
fill the gaping pages of the notebook
I made by stacking pages together,
they somehow fit, not one page meant to
be there, but just being perfect together,
in that exact mismatched order.
I thought about the little something
that I’d read today,
and it let me to my own
jumbled thoughts, and unwritten
philosophies, a bit of humour.
It led me down the rabbit hole in my head,
and at the end of it there
was a huge mess;
unfinished pieces written
on papers strewn about
a littered floor, with an
‘Enter at your Own Risk’ board
hanging at the door,
and a ‘Step With Caution’ placard
placed in the middle of the cluttered space.
A little later, I wondered why
I couldn’t finish what I’d started,
or maybe why couldn’t I be proud of my own work.
And that gave way to the realization
that I hadn’t let it affect my soul,
or let it be shaken to the core. No,
it was superfluous, like my thoughts,
entering and exiting,
leaving a trace
like footprints on the beach,
marking only till the next wave washed it down,
leaving not a hint of it being there just moments ago,
deep imprints laid forgotten.
If you ever happen to glance at me,
and feel a beat of your heart missed,
and skipped repeatedly,
don’t expect it to be love.
And if you still argue to the contrary
look into my eyes and tell me
my insecurities are loud,
and my (in)confidence louder still.
Try to tell me that
you love the way I laugh, loud and erupting,
deep cracking, and, so…
what do they call it? Unladylike, yes.
Tell me you like the way I bun up my
messy hair, and smile at you from across the room.
Or maybe the way I text you at night to say goodnight,
just to know that you’re there.
Or that my blithe disregard to the canon doesn’t work you up.
accepting is so tough, and maybe I don’t
like the way I’m stared at when I double-up,
or when I sometimes don’t put enough thought in my clothes.
For love is kind, and forgiving, and accepting.
If I cannot, would not,
embrace myself, why would you endure?
You had me cover my eyes as we crossed
the threshold to your home,
Oh, I always forget that it’s now ‘our’ home.
It never felt like mine, you know? It rather
felt as if I was on a display, there for every
one to see, and my vision snatched away
from me by a cloth around my eyes.
I never knew what it was to be impaired,
growing up despising control. I
couldn’t live like that, you know?
Bound by chains so strong they couldn’t
be visible to the naked eye. But, they were
but there. On display for everyone to see.
I struggled to get rid of them.
Those cuffs around my wrists were
suffocating, chafing skin and veins,
binding me to you even more.
Tried hard to make people realise how I was living in a cage.
I was a bird with my wings cut off;
The people around me were blind, and
maybe even dumb and deaf, because
none of them ever raised their voices for me, the noise of gossip was decibels much higher than my pleas.
My scars were visible, even the band aid couldn’t fix them.
Permanence was temporary, just like the
marks around my eyes and the scars
covering my wrists, beneath,
there was me,
My very first collaboration with Saloni Mhapsekar.
Art by: Saloni Mhapsekar. (Check her out on Instagram, @saloniquietlybrilliant )
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.
You meet, you fall, you love, and then you go back to square one, only as someone a teeny weeny bit different than you were before. You spend weeks trying to figure out what went wrong only to arrive at the conclusion that you were not meant for each other. But had it not been only a week before you were uploading PDA photos on Instagram and writing “Saat janmo tak hum saath rahenge” (We’ll stay together for all seven lives.) Then there were your conversations about ‘naming your kids’. Yep. Don’t say you didn’t do that. We all know you did. And weren’t you going around calling yourselves ‘soulmates‘? What about that? Eventually you will, no doubt, find yourself another soulmate.
Personally, I feel that there is not a ‘one true love’. There is always someone we hold onto, as for the time period. We find someone else, and we leave that one person we had to sail off with the new one. Then the new cat is ‘the one’.
I have seen people drift in and out of love, watched them saying ‘I love you’ to three people at once, thinking they are meant for them, hooking up with people thinking that sometime in the future they have a future.
But then, I also see people waiting for a person, and then growing old all alone. And lonely. So if they say that there is one person for everyone in this world, why is it that some people are butterflies, flying around from one flower to another, and some dear little caterpillars, sticking to one tree and getting thrown stones at?