Monday, November 14, 2016

Kintsugi

As we sat down
in the state of
in
   be
       tween
                 ness
                         (Nescafe)

we raised
               our doubts
about the current state of affairs

(Donald Trump won the elections that night)

It is raining offers
of better future, or past
depending on one's point of view.


And still, we sat down
                looking forward
                or backward,
or perhaps sometimes not even looking at all
hidden
     behind the mask of
                unbrokenness
of our desires and ambitions...

We sat down
by the broken pot
mending its cracks with pieces of gold
not to hide them
but to find meaning
behind every mistake we have ever made.

Sunday, September 11, 2016

We were learning each other for the first time

I do not know what it was,
maybe the soundless words that asked me not to be afraid,

we were learning each other
for the first time,
and even though I was impatient

still
we were allowing the time to stretch
allowing the time to stretch
the time to stretch
to stretch

between words
between sentences
between smiles
between yesterday and the promise of tomorrow.

I was impatient
again
chased by uncovered memories
again
fearful of loosing
again
unsure of what it all means
again

until again-ness of the in-between-ness was almost unbearable
however,
we have been learning each other for some time now and so
unexpectedly
instead of falling
I began to shyly feel the ground beneath my feet.

Perhaps his feet were hanging above the ground for a very long time as well
?

?


?

?




and they
needed time to stretch stiffened muscles
slowly
and without rushing
so that
the fear of again-ness
would fly away.

We were learning each other
for the first time.
Slowly.

Monday, August 1, 2016

Rainy Day

In a descriptive mood
devoid of the penthouses touched
by the greyness of your sky

they entered (realizing that
to enter is a verb)
or
re-entered
into
those well known spaces
of tiny veins
that make my muscles clench
into a body of a fist
into a body crumpled under the gaze of other bodies
into a body that I might have forgotten
and
then
I pack myself
into cold shapes of lines
forming letters on an even colder screen
and
send myself
into you

not knowing what the weather forecast is like at your end
.
It rained here all day,
I slept with my sweater on.

Saturday, July 9, 2016

Un.

For if I ever unwounded myself
                    the process might have been rather painful;
Yet,
If I
If I     could
trust   you
And
if        You
could  trust
me
.
.
.
in a jungle of dissected words
and meanings
.
If I could trust you and you could trust me
then perhaps one night
I would unstitch the stitches and show you the raw flesh and
perhaps then that night
a tiny worm of fear would climb up onto the cotton ball
that I would allow
allow you
to
to keep under the skin for a moment.

And then I would restitch the stitches until the next moment when
you could trust me and I could
un-trust my
insecurities
.
The process always remains unfinished
untill
one night
You
stitch
my words
into the forearm of your left hand.

Saturday, June 25, 2016

and no words have ever been spoken

If she ever...
                   ... it was because he would open the new horizons for her,
If he ever ...
                   .... it was because she would contain his skies in her arms before they would burst into small pieces again
.
.
.
.
.
and no words have ever been spoken...
instead,
they looked at them
.
.
both with their strange looking eyes
.
.
l
o
o
k
e
d
.
.

but one day a word run and touched his skin
..
and he run as the skin of his forearm remained touched by her...
...
she knew
...
he knew
...
and no words have ever been spoken
.
.
.
two trees
..

in an open field

...............................
and a field opened its gates to free the freedom trapped in them


Sunday, June 5, 2016

The Doors

The child was amazed with her new surroundings... for the house of the piano player had numerous rooms with their own separate landscapes - the house by the lake, the sea where he dolphins lived, the desert where he once walked and the oasis that reminded her of the past tense of her future memories. She wandered around the mansion and each door that opened infused her with tenderness that she never felt before. It would stay with her for long as it crawled under her skin and coiled in her sympathetic nervous system... She did not want to grow up but to remain there in the labyrinth of corridors that went it spirals to a point when her head began to spin...

She was standing on a thin line hanging from here to there or from there to here, depending on your point of you. Her hands up in the air trying to balance her steps as she walked slowly towards...  towards what? It did not matter. A wise man told her once to fix her gaze on one point ahead and allow the breath to lead her, and so she walked and each step seemed to be making her feel lighter as the coins of expectations fell one by one out of her pockets to the green grass below. The line was so thin that she almost got frightened for a moment that it might suddenly turn into something amorphous and the clearly divided spaces below shall become androgynous.
But do we need definitions? Divisions of roles that we play? Would you like to just play with me without knowing whether things are black or white? Forgetting all that you knew before and allowing me to be you and you me? Closer even than intertwined... liquid, fluid, penetrating those known unknown sides of each other. But where does one end and the other begin?

She fell. Her hands thrown to the sides as the body tried to fight the mundane forces of gravity. The sense of suspension.  Body in a moment. What would you do if you could capture the moment of existence and the non-   of it with your own eyes? The drop of sweat that already splashed but had not splashed as yet at the same time? Those moments when the real becomes so unreal that you do not know which side to turn your head to.

They sat together at the same time. Divided only by the walls of some fifteen hundred buildings that were given for rent each year. 11 months agreement. 1 month of discord.

He placed his fingers on the piano keys and the fifteen hundred seats hall became silent in anticipation. He raised his hands and as the fell down the strings began to tremble. Her eyes were fixed on a point ahead of her and the steady rhythm of her breath helped her to keep the balance as she walked on a trembling line.

He stood up and the audience began to roar with applause.
 She touched the tree.
He was packing his bags after the performance was over.
She looked back and smiled.

I closed the doors of the room on my left side. My head was spinning... so many doors closed and opened... so many walls in between... and yet...

He sat down tired after another show. The nth hundreth and nth fourth in his life. He took off his face off his faceless body and kept it on the hanger. He looked into the mirror. Unable to recognise the image he turned his head away. He shrug his shoulders and his hands dived into his pockets. he felt the cold touch of metal there. He took out a bunch of keys and with an invisible smile closed the doors behind him and threw the keys high in the air.

Sunday, April 24, 2016

I will not tell him

I will not tell him,
for he had already left for the wilderness,
yet the softness of his lips infused me with innocence that glowed in his eyes.
I became slender that day for the first time.
We sat holding hands and I was that sixteen year old girl whom he kept close to his chest when she wanted to sleep.
I listened to the heartbeat - it spoke of being.
I loved these words.

There was no rush of torn clothes nor words cutting through my skin like a razor.
They still played in my mind though.
Unerasable memories.
I froze in fear as they creeped up my neck.

He failed to see that a sixteen year old girl tried to fill the negative spaces of his body with her presence.
He left for the wilderness that day.

I kept a leaf in my notebook.
It shall turn brown with time...
He shall see so many leaves to pluck in the forest.
They will all be greener than mine.



Wednesday, April 20, 2016

How to...

A horse died.
They took the dead body and the match began...
The head of the well known team threw the corpse into the playfield.
The impact was so great that the opposing team took  three steps back before their strategist came out with the idea of amputation.
They cut the leg with an ax and threw it back at the opponents.
The crowd was roaring at the stadium.
The match was fascinating.
Better even perhaps than the one in which they decapitated the cow.
The game was so amusing.
They hanged the street dogs by their legs and asked the willing ones to pay rupees 5 for a shot.
It allowed them to gather the funds for the games that were to take place in the coming year.

The greatest being on earth... that knows how to conquer the space, that knows how to build machines, that knows how to... how to... how to...

A horse died.
A cow died.
A dog died.
How to... they did not know.



Wednesday, March 16, 2016

Perhaps, yet, and then...

I like my house. Just like I like my name.
I like them in the future and the present.
I have chosen them myself and we grew into each other.
The house. The name. The I.

I shall not invite you,
it is my space, not yours.
Yet,
the land next door is empty.
Perhaps,
one day there shall be a house there.
And then,
we might stand by the fence and talk.
We might even build a gate and go out from our houses and walk,
till we find another piece of land
and we make it our own.

Saturday, March 5, 2016

The spirals.

It is like a drug.
I tasted it and my body is craving for more.
I wish I could tell you about the experience yet the dictionary failed to provide appropriate words.
Rollercoaster without fear.
Trust.
The whiteness of the cat turning to yellowness in the light of a night lamp.
My eyes chasing after my big toe as it runs to follow the rest of the body.
Residual awareness.
Muscles relaxed as physics and gravity found themselves to be in perfect constellation in the center of my body.

I need to breathe as the very memory of it makes me feel high.

Straight lines of the daily routine make me run for a blade that would cross them out from the pages I write.

Touch of the floor beneath my feet.
Spaces.
Spaces, spaces, spaces that are waiting to be filled with my movement and emptied again.
Discovered. Found. Rediscovered.

I covered my mouth pondering over the sense of the words I had written.
They fail to understand.

Only the spine still has some memories.
Fading.
Craving.
Dreaming.

Sunday, February 7, 2016

The art of storytelling

I've always been poor with languages. Unlike so many of you who are able to dissect the world into neat multi-syllable words that you ate for lunch in that tiny foreign restaurant just around the corner I struggle with my daily bread. It's often coarse and hurts your delicate palate yet my mother cannot teach me more sophisticated ways of cooking anymore.
I mixed jaggery with bananas for lunch today.
It was sweet and had a smell of a village house. We ate it together - you and I and then the story came to sit down by our side. We gave her a cup of tea. She was feminine for sure - the story I mean, the tea was more masculine in nature - black with lemon and just a single spoon of sugar in it.
She was distressed she said. I asked her why, but she remained silent for a long time.
A man was passing by. He was carrying his proposal for a government grant for a revolutionary project about the art of storytelling. We offered him tea, yet he refused. He was too busy comparing grant opportunities offered by some far away countries and the discussion had to turn towards the semantics of proposal writing. The story was silent. I think she turned her head away.
A lizard climbed inside a paper lampshade. I could see each part of her body being lit. Black mark of ink on red paper.
The project was intense. It was based on the concept of taking the words out from random pages of a dictionary and applying them to white sheets of paper. The task was so deep that the participants began to worry if they manage to stay with it for the whole day.
A tiny fish touched my foot as I stood in the blue waters. I giggled in response. The butterfly flapped its blue and black wings. I watched it hiding in the grass.
The project was a success. New methodologies of the art of story writing were invented and all the participants discussed the lack of such way of communication in our culture. Apparently we sold everything to cater for the foreign tastes. Disturbing... don't you think?
The dogs barked. I patted one of them. He licked my hand.
The man got up. He was in hurry to finish his project before the dead line. It was important. The future of mankind could be depending on it.

She opened her mouth but could not say any word. They got stuck somewhere near the larynx. She coughed. And coughed. And coughed. And... and each time her torso was torn by the spasm her body would shrink a bit. She was becoming smaller and smaller until she became an almost invisible point hidden between the dust of the earth.

The cup of tea stayed on the table.

And you and I engrossed in our thoughts about the art of story telling...

Sunday, January 24, 2016

in brackets

The stones were heavy. They made her feel exhausted that night. It wasn't even a bad dream.
What surprised her though was the clarity of newly found straight lines. They indicated the directions. Short sentences. Sharp thoughts. Precise steps. Following procedures. She felt as if life had evaporated from her chest in that 30 minutes conversation at night. Her left shoulder was turning into a stone and she was amazed to see the strength in the rest of her body that prevented her from collapsing and crushing against the floor.
She felt as if something precious died in her that night.
She was sitting alone.
She wanted to cry.
She did for a moment.

She felt jealous of all those who could play in the open fields.
The bonded labourer. Just a few more stones in the basket above her head.
They felt so heavy that she had even forgotten to dream about the blue ball that a spoilt child threw out of a shiny red car many nights back.

Just a few words written in brackets in between the rambling stories that one will never really read.

Friday, January 22, 2016

The fear of falling

The invitation came suddenly. Just a few words scribbled on a piece of paper that he must have torn out of a morning newspaper. He must have been sitting motionless for a moment, engrossed in lackadaisical thoughts mixed with the smell of the world news, and then a sudden glow of the raising sun reflected in his eyes giving him an extra dose of energy that enabled him to stand on the stage one more time that day. He laughed to himself and picked up a pen to write those few letters that she got to hear the next day.
He felt angry inside. Each day made him loath more and more that part of himself that made him wear a polite smile on his face as he stood in front of the audience as everything else in him wanted to scream and walk away. He despised himself for this. The lack of courage and hypocrisy that he did not want to admit even to himself. He lacked courage in many other instances too, yet this one bothered him most.
He did not have courage today either so he crumpled the note he was writing and threw it towards the window.
He got used to it. The absence of courage mingled with the presence of fears. These two states accompanied him throughout his life, only the proportions varied.
His childhood was marked by the absence of those who should have been present. His father embarked on a journey to the lands more beautiful than the simple drawings that his mother had decorated the walls with. He returned years later proclaiming that after seeing the world he decided it's time for his family to look after him once again. Nobody objected, only a child hid in the corner of the heart of a man looking outside the window.
It was beautiful out there. He loved watching birds and flowers and his eyes would often wander in that direction when people around him were busy teaching him the rules of the market economy. He failed his exams in marketing many years later, which sometimes left him scared of those around him who managed to exchange schooldays bicycle for shining fast moving cars. He began to look towards the window even more often - out there nobody asked for his marketing results.
The world outside the window called him to join in its eternal movement. The soaring of an eagle, the branches shivering in the wind, the gentle precision of a bud turning into a flower, the everchanging shapes of the clouds as they surfed through the sky. He could feel each of their movements tying invisible strings to his limbs as his body stretched, spiralled and dove through space. He enjoyed this sensation of being one with all those being outside the window. It made him feel as if he was a bird. He would sometimes even toss invisible wings in his dreams...
She came to him suddenly. He had not seen any such creature before... her limbs so fair, hair that resembled a field of sunflowers on a summer's day, her movements so fluid that he could swear she was walking in the clouds and not on earth. She touched him and he entwined himself around her like a creeper. He felt he found that place for himself that would link all the scattered worlds he belonged to. She smiled at him and allowed him to develop wings that would carry her high in the sky, until one day her eyes fell on a man driving a red shining car. Before he even noticed the stem of his plant had nothing to support himself on.
He fell and the fall was so strong that his wings broke in many places. He suddenly understood the scar in his mother's heart that grew to become a canyon the day his father had left. The fall disoriented him and so he began to run away from himself not knowing where was he running to... The day he stopped he tried to look back, but he could not see himself anymore. The only thing that his eyes could perceive were the broken bones on his back and a report card that proclaimed him to have failed in business marketing.
He would sometimes let himself being touched by various bodies that came near him. Strong musculature of men and curvy lines of women. He wanted to forget himself at night yet it hurt again in the morning. Not knowing what to do he began building the wall around. It felt safe in that space that would demarcate the boundary between him and them and he still had an open sky above to look at.
He woke up screaming one night - he found himself floating on a melting iceberg and there was nothing but water all around. He did not know how to swim.

She had a strange dream that night - she was walking on a desert and the hot sun was burning her feet. It made her cry. She felt invisible that night. It wasn't only nights that made her feel invisible, the days made her feel like that too. 

He watched her from a distance. She was playing with a child and seeing this made his eyes shine. It filled him with a sudden warmth. It irritated him. It reminded him of all those things that 'might have been...' but were not there. It was a strange mixture of feelings - tenderness, anger, irritation, regret and fear. Fear of falling that prevented him from ever trying to fly again.

She felt sudden warmth as his eyes fell on her. It felt as if the broken bone of her left wing was healing and if he was giving contours to her otherwise invisible body. She did not move though. She was scared of falling.

They did not know I was watching, but I did.

The crumpled piece of paper raised itself from the floor and flew outside the window. It had the wings of a butterfly and it made me smile when it sat in my hair the other day. The Comma... It whispered "Hi, how have you been? I've been missing you. Will you tell me a story?"



Friday, January 1, 2016

The Comma

The tea was getting cold. She was watching the vapour taking away the sharp lines of his face and turning them into shapeless memory.
It was confusing for her and she wanted to shout at him and beat him on his arm till he begins to laugh, sit next to him with her head on his shoulder and shamelessly hold his hand in hers, walk away...  as abruptly as a midway finished sentence. All three at the same time like a photo taken on an old zenith camera when the film got stuck on a single frame.

They were looking at the trees and he spoke of his fascination for the reddish flowers while she closed her eyes and caressed the palm tree leaf, or was it the leaf itself that intended to gently play with her palm?

Not-so-far away someone was constructing a to-be-famous installation of the trees. Plastic was gathered for that purpose and TV cameras were to transmit the opening event to the places very-far-away. She could not help but pray for a miracle that would dash that plastic world far-away-from-hers.

She felt tired. The tea was cold. She decided to put a comma at the end of the sentence, it was not the time for full stops yet, they seemed too fat for this season,

The Comma spread its scalloped wings and flew away,

I sat at the threshold and felt the touch of its wings on my face, or was it just the wind that absorbed the vapour of the tea before it became cold,,, The question hanged on the wall as I looked back, and then suddenly it fell down and splashed cold water on my face. A full stop. The Comma sat in my hair...