Where Is Your Bookmark?

What is a bookmark? If not a promise to come back, where you left off? We go around bookmarking chapters of our life we couldn’t quite finish, that perhaps made our heart ache. But they also made our heart warm, like the winter sun on cold mornings.
Are you smiling right now?


There is a book I can’t make any sense of,
yet I cannot seem to put it away.
Flipping page after page,
with faint, lingering hope,
it’d turn to something beautiful.

One day I chance upon a chapter,
that takes my breath away,
until, after a couple of flips,
it too, stops making sense

But since abandoning things midway,
demands a strength I am yet to have,

I bookmark this chapter,
& keep it aside quietly.

Someday when I’m wiser,
and my heart has more strength,
I’ll come back to you.

Until then, I’ll let you rest,
On the shelves of my weak memory.
Hoping that when the time is right,
I may have not forgotten about you.


Keep bookmarking chapters of your life like this. Open them in secret & feel that warmth again from time to time. Or open them for good, and start all over again.

 

Love always,
Your blogger.

heaven is here

you go,
wherever the urgency of time
leads you.

i wish to stay here,
where the pink of the sky is just within reach,
& where waves crash & fall,
like a million diamonds scattering.

where cherry blossoms bloom,
with all their might,
& whirl away softly,
by a cool breeze.

i want to be consumed,
evaporated,
soaked by the sky.

you go claim mountains,
as if they were your own,
i will be here,
as still as the ocean bed,
as roaring as its gut.

Poem to fix someone

Sometimes it gets so quiet that my head hurts,
then i see a slender beam of light escaping
through my curtain,
at 4 am,
and all is well for 15 seconds.

until I jerk to reality,
and go pee,
in the tiniest bathroom in the world.
but big enough to fit us.

sometimes at 3 am,
when sleep is out of the question,
i hear the distant rumble of a train.
bellowing through the night,
someone on that train can’t sleep either,
thinking of stuff he cannot fix,

like I think of myself.

To think that things cannot be fixed,
is a folly.
even a broken bone is healed,
what then is a broken heart?

only sometimes to get fixed soon,
you need a hand.
a pair of hands,
and a pair of eyes,
and a pair of arms.

“Come here”, I say out loud in my empty room,

“I’ll fix you.”

 

Love always,

Your blogger.

말 없는 슬픔 – 사람또사람

First you play the song below, then you read.

I stand under the kitchen light, chopping carrots while the oil in the pot simmers. Every chomp an echo punctuating the song playing on my phone I recklessly placed on the kitchen slab.

It’s a song in a language I don’t completely understand but I feel it sewing itself up to my heart.

I stand under the only lit space in my house. House not home. Rest is all in darkness, with no movement, nothing.

The chopping becomes slow, distracted until with a final thump it ceases. I glance at the perfect empty space around me, what a metaphor for this heart. The song plays like a perfect soundtrack.

If I’m looked at from a distance, there will be a kitchen with a light, with greyish dark around & a girl standing with a knife looking at nothing.

I spend entire days not speaking a word. But my head doesn’t seem to stop buzzing. This imbalance is starting to hurt. My head makes me think of you without a face, all the time.

I’m trying to draw you in my mind.

I remember you told me you loved sunsets. Particularly the ones silhouetted in clouds. Tonight I feel like a sunset too. Except nothing about me is pink. I don’t glow. I am only shrouded in clouds and I’m sinking.

Everything would make sense with you here, even the sinking.

The catch is, I don’t know who you are.

Yet.

 

Love always,

Your blogger.

The Only Tree on a Hill

After what feels like centuries a story has been brewing inside me, earnest to be put on paper. Enjoy. 

My grandfather housed a distinct fondness for trees. A love he happily passed on to me after failing to do so with my father. Being a reclusive child I seldom ventured outdoors, fearing human malice for, as a kid I was once pushed in a muddy ditch for committing the innocent crime of being the new girl in town.

The cucoon into which I invariably recoiled in grew into a home. I turned inwards for respite and befriended books and nature to ward loneliness. But the queer claws of time germinated an odd upheaval in my bosom. A longing for something so elusive it prevented me, at times from getting sleep.

Perhaps, my grandfather sensed this turmoil within me, an utter restlessness and angst for desiring something farther from my reach, and invisible to the eye- like friendship but not with a human form. Humans repelled me.

Thus, one cool April morning when the sun was tepid enough to cake us in its warmth and the air still tasted of dew my grandfather took me to a nearby hill, where I often previously went for walks. I noticed the clatter of a shovel tied to his waist against keys dangling from a belt loop, and a small plastic bag full of what seemed like dirt; but didn’t say a word.

We stopped at the highest crest the hill could afford. A few gulls croaked in the distance and a warm breeze swept the fields. Far East, I could see our little house, a tiny dot within a green pasture, a muddy road snaking its way into it.

“Do you know why we’re here?” my grandfather asked with a twinkle in his eyes, breaking my reverie.

I shook my head. Even at the usually stimulating age of fourteen, my heart somehow was always too tired to speak.

“I’m here to introduce you to a friend. Who will stay with you throughout your years and will stay further for your posterity and perhaps further for more generations to come.” 

With this he dug a small pit in the heart of the earth and handed me the bag of dirt, which upon closer observation, bore a tiny sapling. I placed the sapling in the ditch gently and pat it shut.

My grandfather passed away shortly after and I found respite in the sapling when my heart ached too much for him. Its existence became my purpose. I spent my youth watering, nurturing and at times even talking to it.

Time flew past like gusts of wind and ten long years later, I sit under what grew into a magnificent, sentinel, behemoth tree- lush and green, watching over me like a silent guardian. The distant longing inside me quelled with the tree’s pristine, watchful presence- quiet and sincere. The tree taught me stillness and how to give without expecting.

My grandfather gave my restless ship an anchor. He gave direction to my rapid thoughts. The tree embodied his own spirit, omnipresent but never holding you back.

Today, sitting under its shadow I brood over my life so far. Remember those who left and bemoan those who never arrived. I hope the tree will remain, if nature permits, perhaps for centuries,  and will continue granting stillness to those running from the future’s chaos. I pray it assuages their inner wounds too, doled out by a callous world.

A warm breeze tussles my hair and makes the leaves above rustle with delight. I’m pulled back to the present.

‘I know friend’, I muse looking up, ‘you too like the breeze as I do.’ 

 

Love always,

Your blogger.

 

Bird in a long Winter (I)

Good morning,

Winter has finally settled in my part of the world (if I may be so bold as to claim it). Today my city felt like one of those dewy, misty mornings of London I’ve only read about in books.

A dense, quiet fog wafts through the air and the world below my balcony seems to be in a standstill.

I can’t tell you the details of the world below because my eyes are forever fixated towards the sky. 

The sky from my balcony appears to be the lightest shade of blue. Like today the sky is too tired to gleam. Too exhausted to shine. And the sun, no sign of it. 

Before my mind plays its tricks and I’m reminded of the enormity of this world I step inside and try to warm my freezing feet; a quandary I face every December.

Failing to do so, I take a deep breath and open my laptop, typing solemnly and ready to tame another, jaded day. 

 

 

Love always,
Your blogger. 

Plane watcher

New cities are hard to feel at home in
every face a stranger,
every room cold
devoid of the comforting sense of familiarity. 

that’s why I find myself perched in balconies
of hotels, studios or polished penthouses
hunched over railings,
scooping a mug of strange tea.

eyes glued towards the vast expanse 
of a foggy night sky
traffic in the backdrop a distant hum,
conversations facile
while my eyes face the universe
with hope

When a plane snails its way under the moon
red lights twinkling at me, teasing.
I blink and sigh
The birds have left this city
Look,
I am now a plane watcher. 

Blunder

The clock strikes 12 and my phone buzzes
It doesn’t feel right
I’m cucooned in my blanket
My heart is so heavy
It’s full of nothing but grief
I pick up the phone and
put up a good show
‘i’m proud of you, you can do this’

smile
smile between tears
don’t let them notice the hiccups
or how your voice wavers

say thank you
and hang up
stare at the ceiling
while you breathe from your mouth

Stare until the blades of the fan make you dizzy
wipe your nose
not your eyes

people, goblins, fairies and witches
Gods, kings, queens & elves
carry on
it’s another day
or raise your empty goblets
tonight

your girl turns 22

No sleep for this sad

The date was 15th,
and my head bobbed with the train’s rythemic jolts
two hours past midnight & everyone’s asleep
white ghosts hanging in the air
swaying softly as the train lulls them

the window which I peer through is shrouded in dark
and my own, restless reflection ornates it
Until i raise my head
and see lights twinkling in the distance
it’s a factory

I see small figures on metal beams
Pounding the hammer for tomorrow’s meal
silhouettes of smoke
rise through tall chambers
like a serpent keeping watch
the workers grind
quiet and morose

hours past midnight
and my train marches through
the factory recedes from view
so do the workers

the window is dark again
I’ll keep peering
untill tomorrow morning when I deboard
sip my morning tea at the station

and silently hope
they got their meal too.

 

Simplicity Rhyme

simplicity

They promise me hoards of gold and glitter,
And a jewel to bedazzle my slender neck,
A ring to festoon my lady fingers,
A sparkly dress to adorn my chest.

I smile with gratitude,
While they try to find the perfect shoe,
For what more could a girl desire?
Than a closet full of exotic tulle.

They scamper across the country,
Fidget, fight, falter and ferment.
Frenzied by my lack of satisfaction,
My heart had exposed my furtive pretend.

Aghast they make a one last try,
And scour the stores for a velvet sweater,
Displeased I caress its threads and wonder,
When was the last time someone wrote me a letter?

Wistfully I smile at my list of pleasures,
A little pile of invaluable treasure,
A mix tape made of our favorite songs,
A good old journal, that time had worn.

A wooden mug, a home for my coffee,
Maybe flowers- tulips and lilies.
An album of old photographs,
Stuck on a paper haphazardly.

Matching bands,
A token for our friendship,
A ticket for a stage play,
A messy unplanned road trip?

A picture on a key-chain,
For I shall carry it forever,
Small antique wooden artistry,
A box of varied stationary!

And the most precious of all,
What you’d find in every corner and nook,
A beloved obsession,
A precious book.

While I tried on that sweater,
Smiling at my imaginary list,
Secretly bubbling at my fictional tryst,
My smile faded at the wonder of how,
They only measure joy in bills.

As I looked at my velvet image,
A living example of standing travesty,
My head shook in contempt,
How hard is it really to comprehend?
That a feeling as pure as felicity,
Some people still find in simplicity.

I Got It

I get it.
When you told me you loved me, while simultaneously replying to an urgent mail.
I get it.
When you said you were too tired from work, to listen to how much I loved the rain.
I get it.
When you said I should cut the carbs, for all the weight I’ve gained.
I get it.
How at parties I was invisible, for you were too busy shaking hands and making bargains.
I saw it.
How you fixed your gaze on how she talked and glowed like fire.  
I saw it.
How when we came home, you still couldn’t stop talking about her.
I noticed it.
How you started drifting away, for you said you had important work.
I understood it.
That you instead chose to spend your time with her.
I reckon. 
As I lie in my bed alone,
And the rain beats down my window pane.
If you ever managed to understand,
How fiercely I loved the rain.
My floor is covered with pictures of you.
While you’re with her singing a happy song.
I’m still here trying to contemplate,
Where is it that I went wrong?

I Drive

The road is long and I cannot see the end, yet my foot on the accelerator is stiff as I drive through the unknown.

A mountain range is following me through my journey as I glance at it frequently while I drive. I may feel bored of its perpetual rocky view, yet it refuses to leave my side; it stands there with all its might.  Like it’s somehow tied to my fate.
Just like a soul mate.

I drive and I see a lamp. Covered in a layer of nightly frost. A warm abode for the buzzing moths. It glows in the dark and shows me the way. The right, safe and honest way. I can see the direction it’s steering me in and I know I’ll be safe. For this lamp has brought several lost, to the right, successful place.
Just like a teacher.

I drive further and my feet ache. I am thirsty and I start to faint. I slam the break near a flowing stream, getting thinner and thinner as I further my journey. I lie down on its moist, grassy bed. I drink the crystal water and continue the path I tread.
The stream was a gushing river when I was young. Now it’s thin and old. But it still promises me solace and asks me to move even when I’ve lost my hold.
Just like a parent.

I resume my drive and the road ahead is no more straight. It bends and breaks and jerks. There are tortuous loops and bumpy potholes. There is a storm and thunder and lightning crashes on my way. The wind is strong and it tries to steer me away. I shudder and cry and start to lose my faith.  But my car doesn’t stop and I pass through unhurt, unbent, unbroken.
I pass through all the vicissitudes of life.

There comes a forest. Lush and green. Long deciduous trees wave at me through the dark. I pass by them anyway, and glance at them through my rear view, they are still waving at me. I prefer not to stop, they are ones I already left behind.
Just like the relations that never work out.

I once again begin to lose my way, and the path becomes darker. There is no light and I’m lost and scared. Suddenly a voice whispers from above and I look up to a scintillating view of a thousand stars. The night sky now burns with a silver glow, and now I realise I’m not alone. For these stars may not be visible throughout the path, but I know they’d always be there. Bright and cheering, guiding me midway.
Just like friends.

The journey continues and the stream is no more present, but the  moist earth it left behind reminds me of its existence. I come across a diversion, where the path breaks into two. I stand there still, wondering, fearing which one to leave and which one to choose. The mountain range is enveloped in fog, and the stream is no more there. The stars are hidden among the clouds and the forest wouldn’t care.
I am alone and my mind wonders. I close my eyes and breath in the air and ask the person inside me. I ask my little beating heart to resolve the query for me.
The air soothes my lungs and my body becomes light. A little voice inside me tells to follow the path to the right.
When nothing worked I closed my eyes and allowed the air to wake me up from inside.
Just like our conscience.

I turn right and I know not where I’ll go. Where the path would bend and where it would flow.
But I know this I’d drive unbowed and unbent, my faith strong and unshaken, the river will flow and the stars will shine, while I tread this road that is my life.

Straight from the Heart #2

Poetry and I, somewhat have a peculiar relationship. You see, the words come knocking at a very odd hour, mostly when either I’m at the highest point of tranquility or when my mind rumbles with a tornado of thoughts.

They come to me to either make me more peaceful or to release those tornadoes on a piece of paper, through poetry.

So here I am, releasing my tornadoes.

image

image

Note To Yourself

Who are You?

You are not your status updates or the posts you like.
You are not what you wear or the Instagram filters you’re unable to decide.
You are not your Facebook Profile picture,
Or the number of Retweets you get,
You are not your ‘number’ of followers,
Or the praises you see in those comments.
You are not Gucci or Steve Madden,
Or that dress you’re adamant on trying,
You are amazing, despite no likes,
Of which the world out there is ignorant.

You are one of those countless sleepless nights,
Or your seemingly long showers,
You are your first sip of coffee,
On rush Monday morning hours.

You are those shortness of breath,
When you can’t get enough of a joke,
You are your hysterical laughter,
When the joke comes haunting,
And you smile to yourself.

You are your thoughts,
When you stare at the infinite ocean,
You are your approval,
When you let the waters wash your sandy feet,
Even when your trousers get wet,
You smile;No regrets.

You are what you think,
When you are driving alone,
You are your heavy exhausted sigh,
When laying beneath the stars; young and forlorn.

You are your satisfaction,
When you finish a good book,
you are the glitter in your eye,
When you talk of the things you love.

And in the end, my friend,
You are a luminous blessing,
You are the silver fire of the stars,
You are the universe trapped in a body,
You are your mind, travelling to lands afar.

tumblr_m4czmzQtbf1rscl6no1_500

Picture Courtesy: http://www.tumblr.com

Dream

My dreams are weird films,
Of images wide and clear,
With messages hard to decipher,
Like it happened last night.

*

It shows me not planets but people,
Moments of life I’d like to be extraordinary,
Things I’d wish they would happen,
And it does this with such skilled fingers,
That I wake up sour and bitter.

*

It’s amazing that last night,
How precise my dream was,
Deprived of all the flaws,
Each event synchronized,
With my intense desires.

*

The words were precise,
Like I wanted them to be,
Which you possibly couldn’t see,
Because I kept them inside.

*

And for the first time I felt,
Dreams were better than reality,
But I hate them for their perfection,
And for plundering the inside of me.

Note: This actually happened, for real. I wish I could describe you how wonderful it was. And since it was such a perfect dream I could not find an equally perfect picture. And the words I wrote are the mere projection of how I felt.