Getting back

There lay the shards
Of what was once my heart;
The pieces that belonged
To a beautiful whole,
That once belonged to you.

I looked at those pieces again
And they still were beautiful -
There was the tear from the day we fought first,
There a wound from the day you dated someone else,
And there the guilt from when I slept with your roommate,
After you lied to me of your new date.

I cannot hold you again as I did that night
When it was raining and we were caught under the awnings
Of an old house on the way to the cinema;
I cannot touch your face as I used to
When you cried about how mean your boss was.
I wish I could see you just once more,
To tell you I do not hate aubergines
Or hold your hands and watch that football match together.

There are those who move on,
And those who pretend to;
I haven't yet figured out
Where I belong,
But no confusion on one damn thing -
I love you still,
And I love you lot.

We have no friends aching to get us back on terms,
Haven't shared phone numbers, no emails -
But Shania showed me your Facebook profile
And I did not send you a friend request.

I love you still, seven years on,
I love your memories,
I love your old gifts;
But the broken heart cannot be pieced together -
Without deepening my gashes - and hurting you again.

Poems on a sleepless night

I.

The world is a big mistake.

God, you should not have trusted men so much.

Men, yes, men.

Because you made them first.

In your likeness, they say.

Are you serious, Lord?

Men are like you?

Then what are women like?

Your ribs?

Come on God, be serious.

What religion teaches us much such a joke.

II.

Every bit of the world’s oceans takes its place in me,

When my love for you starts flowing.

All their depths come together

As my love for you takes shape,

And rises into an eternal,

Immeasurable vessel

Where I store your being, your soul and your love.

My love,

How can I ever explain how much

and why I love you?

Like the earth that is cooled with a pour from the clouds,

My heart finds solace in you.

Like the tree that rejoices in the rains,

My body becomes alive with your touch.

Like alcohol that soothes the nerves,

Your words calm my troubled mind.

What else can I want from you, my love?

Hold my hands for ever,

And let my being find shelter in you.

Love me as I love you, my love.

Let me make you the happiest man alive.

III.

Did I say why I love you?

I think I know why.

Because I find my being in your eyes.

My heart in your throbs.

My thoughts in your mind.

My life in your breaths.

Should I say that again?

IV.

Every night I dream of the snake

That hisses but never bite.

One night, I woke from that nightmare,

Only to find that snake on the bed next to me.

When did you transmogrify, my dear?

V.

They say,

“A lot of water has flown under the bridge since we last met.”

I think,

“Why, because the bridge was stationary.”

What is better?

To be the bridge

Or the river?

I prefer the river,

But then,

Who wants to know my choices?

Every human must go on living

as decreed by his social circumstances.

If I say the society kills your life,

Dogs of the society bare their fangs at me.

I live like the bridge,

wanting to be the river,

and all the water keeps on flowing under the bridge.

What's wrong?

For some, I’m born at the wrong place,

For some, the time is wrong;

For others, my birth is too late,

For more, my family is wrong.

In the end I wake up from nightmares

And look into the mirror.

There too, I find the wrong reflection.

Opening Up To The Night

I.
Every night,
A tear waits to escape
from the well of the face.
There's nothing to holding it back;
There's free will and independence -
But for a ray of hope
in the brain that dries it
before it can make its escape.

II.
There's something about the dark.
Its mysterious quality is captivating.
Dreams are born in the night
And so is love and most of my poetry.
It hides fears and affection in its bosom.
It scares and comforts,
It pains and pampers,
It breeds violence and peace.

When all's bright, during the day,
There's all the life and the world to seek.
But it's the night that brings you out.
You stand face to face
not with another, but your self.
It scares and comforts,
Pains and pampers,
Breeds violence and peace.

Picking up pieces

I.
Mirror reflects my being,
But where do I look to find my soul?

Somewhere within the walls of this body
It lies maimed and shattered.

Picking up pieces after a massacre
Is not easy,
Not motivating.

Will you help me,
I ask the mirror.
And it stares back at me in silence,
As helpless as me.

I look around again,
And everyone is picking up their pieces.

At least, I'm just one of them.
Not alone in my misery.
Heartening.

II.
Her life’s in a mess.
And she plays Freecell,
Wins the game,
And assures herself she can conquer it all.

She goes to the Church,
Looks at the imposing Christ before her
And sheds a tear,
Apologises to her men,
And pretends to be strong.

Alone, at home,
she smiles into the mirror,
Which too scorns at her.

There are tears of grief somewhere,
That struggle to break the steel armour.
But if she lets it break, would she be happy?

No.
She has to live her life.
She has to clear the mess herself,
Pay for it through her own karma.
She smiles again at the mirror,
And it smiles back at her.

Right.

Let me love

I live in their dreams,
And they in mine;
My men, I love thee all,
You abode in my heart's shrine.

How shall I say
Why, how and how much I love thee?
For each of thou are mine,
And yet not mine,
All love's labour's are free.

My body knows thy touch,
My heart feels thine beat,
Each pore in my body
Stands up as thou retreat.

It's not thy kisses,
Not hugs, nor the love-making,
It's the warmth in thy smiles,
The peace I feel when in thine casing.

Scorn me not as a whore,
Deign me not the vamp -
My love's as pure as the morning dew,
As the blue flame of the night lamp.

I care not for the worldly fares -
The lawful names, the legal knots,
But love me as thee shall,
And let me feed my love back unto thee.

A poem

All the pain in my heart
Came out as a few words of love and desperation.
Those words,
Not chosen well nor edited to sound nice,
Failed to touch your heart,
Just like this poem here that makes no difference to you.
What should I blame? -
The pain, the heart, the words, me, or you?

Different

They tell me I am so different.
And thus they alienate me.
I walk around each acquaintance,
Searching for the rewarding look,
For being different.
But all I get is awe and sympathy,
For being different.

The sadness of stories

Deep in the abysses of memory,
Fragments of stories lay mute.
Characters and episodes,
Flung about the chasms as if caught in a storm.

The conscious,
The sub-conscious,
The unconscious -

The memories,
The thoughts,
The fantasies -

A hash of all this
Breeds the storm.

If every second were weighed down so,
the times would never be happy.

But why,
Why the hell,
Do I take the hash to be so depressive?

It might be gleeful,
memorable,
savourable,
favourable,
anything.

Prayers get answered only if you pray hard enough.

Healing

Blisters of a rotten love
Pierce the skin,
Shear through the heart.

I lie,
Sick and tired,
Waiting for the pain to fade away
Under an aceclofenac's influence.

A certain numbness saves the heart
From shedding a lava of pain
Through the eyes.

The wounds will heal, no doubt,
The pain will subside quite fast too.

But a scar will remain
Deep in that area,
Where I saved your memories and worshipped them.

I shall make sure you don't see it,
Because I know it pains you too.

While I try to move on,
Away from the dreams we shared,
and the hopes I cultured,
You shall be getting used to a new life.

My love,
Remember me in those dark dreams
that you're scared to share with anyone.
Keep me in those secrets you would only whisper to yourself.
I shall find my solace in them.

Move on

I loved once, I loved often,
but never so deep as now;
And then I lose him to the winds,
so I look for love again...

The sands on the shore never dry,
The river never seems to cry;
I talk to them and they tell me,
Some emotions are expressed in vain.

If life is all about moving on,
Why should I stay and mourn?
A phase ends and starts again,
And your life's no blemish, no stain.

Expressions

The letters curved themselves
upon the blank white paper
and went to sleep.

Time froze upon the layers
of dust on the old table.

Wind was trapped in the leaves
of the fan.

Some thoughts ran wildly
from the tip of the pen,
Piercing through the calm
of the closed books.

A voice demanded to be heard,
A face wanted recognition.

Everyone - smug, trapped or awakened,
Strives to earn their place.

Come, join the rank.

To do: Separation

The depth of pain,
unmeasured,
falls short of your expectations.

Life's colour is lost,
and you still search for shades.

One change tore me apart,
and your 'to-do' list is long.

I stood on the river bank,
Too lost for words,
Longing for a ride across.

A wish evaporated from my body
And touched the skies.

As if in assurance,
A drop of rain fell on my cheeks -
And I opened my eyes,
To be engulfed in a downpour.

Drenched throughout,
I sought a shelter.
Under every tree and in every house,
I thought I saw you,
arms outstretched.

I closed my eyes again,
and the Sun came high up.
He embraced my curves lustily,
and I closed my eyes,
as he warmed up each pore on my skin.

In the blindness of shut eyes,
I saw your face again.
That smile of affection,
Those naughty eyes,
The gentle blush of perfection.

I walked away,
down the dirty tarred roads
Along rows of shabby houses
with screaming infants
and peeing toddlers.

I clutched my bag in fear,
I quickened my steps.

Was someone following me?

It was your face again,
Hopeful,
Smiling,
Your hands clutching that 'to-do' list.

I strive to blot you out.
I scream out in pain.
I faint.

In the recesses of the subconscious,
I've buried you.
And you chase my conscious every moment.
Repression fails,
and my soul almost scorches itself.

Darling,
do not try to separate you from me.

Love's journey

Every night I ask myself--
Why do I miss you so much?
Is it the warmth, the care or friendship?
Is it the body's need for a loving touch?

Every morning I wake up to dreams of you
And wonder why I am so obsessed.
Do you think of me as much too,
Or is it that you just never confessed?

We are different people, with different needs,
Different parameters and different ways of life;
Different wavelengths at times, and yes,
Different ways of dealing with strife.

But if there was no common ground,
We'd never have come so far.
We'd never understand or care,
Our lives would've gone quite sour.

Love, my dear, hasn't captured us yet,
And though good sense does prevail,
Do not my dreams of you by me,
Make it all seem so worthwhile?

Separation

When your eyes are searching for that spot of love in mine,
I try not to look away; I give out no sign
That the love which held us together for years
Has suddenly disappeared like the mist clears.

I never realised, am sure nor did you,
That like ancient ink, love could fade too.
When we sang those songs of togetherness, long ago,
I never thought we could be separate so.

Mind you, it is no fault of you or me,
It is just a matter of destiny.
We over-worked our charms, you see,
We forgot to water the plant regularly.

And as we slide out of our slimy web,
We do not even match our step,
So I move fast, you move faster,
And our love goes frigid, like some plaster.

Love, old love, apologies.
We can no longer sing the same melodies.
Let us move away, in peace and calm,
Knowing we can no longer be in the same swarm.

Confusing

Turn, turn and turn.

Perfectionism doesn't stand.

Deception prevails.

It just happened, don't worry.

A little cheating is ok.

We are not doing anything wrong.

We are not in love;
but feelings are sometimes overpowering.

You eat, I eat.

The keys of the same bunch rattle together.

Strings draw the kites up into the sky.

We like each other, let's not deceive our hearts.

Blood's always red, thicker than water.

Nerves connect, dissect. Reflex action.

Hearts are pure, everything can be forgiven.

There's nothing to forgive, actually.

Life goes on.

One small memory, sweet and sharp.

You lived, I lived.

Pilgrimage: A short story

One
Pilgrimage.

A journey into the depths of faith within you.

Nothing to do with the external traversal.

Anu did not don the pretence of that long journey. No, she wasn't going to any shrine or temple. Just visiting her homeland after a long long time. A time long as the separation of the atma from the Paramatma, perhaps.

She tried to equate her journey to the pilgrimage for the umpteenth time. Why am I becoming so philosophical, she asked herself, again, for the umpteenth time. Of course this just had to happen. A visit back home after 30 long years was no joke.

If I had been as alienated from my roots as the other Malayalis in the North, it would have been just a tedious trip to a place you don't relate to, just for the sake of performing duties, or as a service to the ageing parents/ grandparents. But she was always the scary true-blue Keralite. Mouths the language like she was in the state all her life, writes in the language, and knows so much about Kerala. So unlike her fellow north-brought up 'Mallu's, many of who could not even say 'Malayalam' properly. Who spoke with an accent, "Enikku Malayalam kurachu kurachu ariyam (I know a little Malayalam)."

I wanted to be like them at a point of time. I wished my mother was not so strictly Keralite. I hoped I would not meet any more Malayalis so that I would gradually forget the language. But that never happened. She kept meeting Mallus from Kerala who longed to find someone who could converse freely in the language, and were always delighted to be with her. She could not escape them, wherever she went. Her friends called her the Mallu Magnet.

Now she realised what God had been doing to her. Guiding her to her real roots. Where she should be. Like the streams that should empty into the river and the river into the ocean, she should end at her journey at the soil, the waters of her homeland. Her long-lost homeland. The homeland she ever ignored, avoided.

Two
It wasn't her fault. She was born in Mumbai, then Bombay, and shifted to Pune for studies and work. She had never been outside Maharashtra except for 15-day visit to her hometown of Thrissur once in every five years. Then she got married. To another 'Mallu' settled in Mumbai, Rohit Menon. Her husband was so disconnected with Kerala that in their married life of 25 years, they never even talked of going to Kerala. Whenever she mentioned it in passing, he'd be annoyed. "Don't try your Malluism on me, Anu", he'd say. "I have no connections with that place except that my grandparents grew up there. For God's sake, even my parents have nothing to do with that communist land anymore!" Anu never bothered to carry the argument further. She wasn't very keen either.

Till when her younger child, Trisha, 7, once asked her a simple question in her usual language of English. Anu was brushing Trisha's hair after her evening bath.

"Mamma, why don't we speak Malyalam like Sangeetha does? She says it's bad if we are from Kerala and we can't speak Malyalam."
"O baby, that's ok. We are not from Kerala anyway, mamma's born and brought up in Maharashtra, and so is dada."
"But mamma, we cannot be Marathis, mamma. Sonu says anybody belongs to the place where their ancestors are from. And she says ancestors means our parents' parents' parents. So we are Malyalis no?"
"What do you kids do in school, huh? Discuss ancestral issues? Stop this rubbish and complete your homework."

But that night as she lay beside Rohit, an old Malayalam song suddenly came to her mind. Maamalakalk appurathu, marathaka pattuduthu malayalam ennoru naadundu, kochu... It was her father's favourite song and he listened to it on his old tape recorder even the day before he died. There is a land of Malayalam across the beautiful hills, that wears an emerald sari... Was it her land? Did she belong there?

When Raj Thackeray kicked up a row about Maharashtrians and outsiders, some of her 'outsider' friends had launched into an argument whether he was right or not. Did Mumbai make them, or did the people make Mumbai? She had felt very strange then. An urgent need to run towards the south. But Rohit showed no tension. He proudly proclaimed in their company's annual party, "I was born and brought up here. I am a Mumbaikar. I do not know Kerala; but I can take you to any corner of Maharashtra without hesitation." She could not share that sentiment, but smiled anyway.

Her children had many 'Mallu' friends, and they picked up some words very typical of Kerala. Da, pinne, poda, patti, amma, chetta, maashe, etc. She was surprised. But she noticed that they did not use it with her or Rohit. Trisha would mouth them unwittingly at times, and Rohit would look at me with critical eyes; but Anoop was very careful. She noticed that he had learnt many words and phrases, and heard them using to his friends on the phone. Later she discovered that his girlfriend was his motivation. But anyway, he had learnt because he wanted to. Trisha just picked up from her friends and her brother.

She felt so out of touch with herself. One night, Rohit was in Nagpur on an official tour, and she lay on the bed all alone, without his body greedy for hers. She thought of her self. What have I become? Just another 'homemaker'. A fashionable word for the same old job. She was a qualified lab technician, but she wouldn't work because Rohit adored her as a housewife. "You cook so damn well. You know Anu, Sumit's wife can't even make omelettes without burning them. He cooks at home, can you believe it? Whatever you say about women's emancipation and all that shit, you can't cook? That's ridiculous. What did you do all your life?"

Wasn't it the same me who smiled at that exclamation who once slapped a guy in the college for saying that his mother 'did nothing, just sat at home'. Wasn't it the same Anu who broke up with a gem of a boyfriend because he refused to learn to cook? Where did all that idealism go? What happened to the young energetic girl who knew a lot about the world, talked beyond her age, and had great ideas for society?

She sat up straight. No. I cannot be so servile to Rohit. I have to start using my own brains. I am not being the smug housewife. I have to shake it off me.

Three
She started reading again. Unnoticed by Rohit, she read Shashi Deshpande and Amrita Pritam, Simone de Beauvoir and Jean Paul Sartre, Shakespeare and Milton. She started going online and joined a couple of forums on Women's NGOs. She actively participated in forum discussions. Finally, she met Ananth.

He ran an NGO in Pune that worked for the working women facing domestic violence. She got highly involved with the work of 'Saccha Ghar', and also with Ananth. He was a Malayali who never forgot his roots. He could read and write Malayalam, and also wrote articles for Matrubhumi and some Malayalam magazines. She started spending more and more time out of home. Rohit started noticing this. But he never questioned her. The ridge between them widened each day, and they pretended not to notice. His tours increased, the nights they spent away from each other became more.

When Anu started first met Ananth after an online discussion, she already had enough free time, two teenage kids who were happy not to have a full-time at-home mother, a perpetually touring husband, and a two-wheeler at her disposal. Both of them were already quite impressed by each other in the virtual world, and the meeting only strengthened the impression. After a long time, she had someone to talk about Kerala, feminism, and life. Rohit had never been an intellectual partner, but then she had never realised her need for intellectual stimulation. Within three months' time she was sleeping with him too.

One night, Anu did not come back home. She was at Ananth's place, and Rohit, who was expected to return from a tour the next evening, came back to find the house lady-less. He called her mobile—switched off. The next morning she walked into the house to find Rohit really angry.

"Where were you all night?"

Anu hadn't expected him home. She fumbled for a credible answer.
"I told the kids..."
"Fuck the kids! Did you tell me? Who are you answerable to?"

Anu was enraged.
"Mind your words, Rohit. And I am not answerable to anyone!"
"Oh, that so? Then you may leave my house. I pay for the people here."
"Does that mean you have bought us?"

The voices were raised. Trisha was home, and she peeped out from her room.
"Mind what you are saying. If I leave you..."
"The hell it will make any difference. I can sustain myself, and my kids too! Thanks for feeding us all these years!"

Both Rohit and Trisha seemed a little taken aback. She turned to Trisha, "Do you want to come with me or stay back here with this fool?"

Trisha didn't know what to say. She just withdrew into her room and locked the door. Probably she picked up the phone to call up her brother.

As Rohit watched in shocked silence, Anu picked up some of her clothes, books and purse and started walking out.
"Is your man waiting for you outside, you bitch?"

Anu gave him a killing look. "He doesn't have to. He knows I can come on my own. I am a woman, no baby."

And she walked away.

Rohit looked perplexed. He did not understand those cryptic last words.

Four
She went to Ananth's place and told him all that happened. He smiled.
"Now what? Are we live-in partners? I'm game."
"No. Before we start that, I have some things to do. A divorce to take. And then a purification."

Ananth had a questioning look.
"I'll tell you what I have in mind. Let's have food first. I'm damn hungry!"

She had decided on the way to Ananth's place what to do with her life now. She'd take a divorce first. If Rohit refuses a mutual divorce, she'll fight for one on the basis that she has fallen in love with Ananth. And that she can't live with Rohit anymore. The children could be a problem. They have the right to decide since both are above 18. Maybe there won't be a 'for the children stay together' jazz in this age. That should or out fine. Trisha may understand her, Anoop may not. Or neither might. Or, best, both would. They could stay with her and Ananth, or with Rohit. Let them have their choice. Anoop has a girlfriend, Trisha has a boyfriend. They'll get over the divorce soon enough. Life's so much easier with the true partner.

The next thing was a visit to Kerala. Meet the old relatives, go around old homes, write about them, maybe stay there for some months, and feel like a Malayali....

Five
And that is how she finally headed to Kerala. With Ananth. She went to Thrissur, her native place, visited all her aunts and uncles, who were in fact happy to hear that 'the Kerala hating son-in-law' was finally off her.

It wasn't easy though.

Anoop, now an earning software engineer, decided to stay on his own with his girlfriend whom he's marrying soon, while Trisha wanted to stay with Anu. She also wanted to go to Delhi to do her Masters in Film Making.

My kids have grown up, Anu thought. Now I can afford to break free. Ananth came at the right time.

Her pilgrimage made complete sense now.

She was going back to cleanse herself of her subservience to an indifferent husband. She was going back to remove the sin of ignoring her motherland from within her, and reviving her love for Kerala. She was going with someone who identified with her devotion to the land. She had reached the purpose of her life.

Ananth and she started a Root Awareness for Keralites group when they returned three months later. She had the support of several of her relatives settled in Pune, whom she never knew. The group taught Malayalam, spoken as well as reading and writing, and held open forums and seminars on Kerala culture, traditions and Arts. They grew through the years.

Once Trisha returned from Delhi, she too became active in it, making short movies for the group.

Anoop came along when he got time, though he still seemed to resist being with Ananth.

Ananth, who gradually gave the entire management of RAK to Anu was always there when needed. His Sacha Ghar gained power with the Domestic Violence Act in place.

And, God gave them more challenges, but for Anu Kerala always remained the holy land. Her pilgrimage centre which she never missed now. Her purpose on earth was achieved. She was ready for eternal life now.

Expectations -- 21st November, '05

Accidents happen in life

Early in the morning,
You wake up from a nightmare
And you know something
Will go wrong with you today.

Either an embarrassment at the workplace,
Or a tiff with a friend,
Or a road accident,
Some close relative may die:
Imaginations grow ghastlier every moment,
And something forces you to be wary.

Yet, that which you'd
been waiting for happens;
You discover your best friend's been cheating on you,
(You knew since the last few months
She was being furtive, but still...)
And you want to break down into hapless cries.

You don't want to ask why it happened
(it was to happen, after all)
But you want to know how it happened --
How you lost your dear friend,
And how she lost you.

Depth Perception

In the recesses of the mind,
when moss and lichen gather,
And its dank, deep smell
Happily keep you away,
You know there's something wrong somewhere.

Keeping away from it
Only deepens your disgust
for it.
Yet,
You do not want to rake it up.
That is the problem.

A jungle of Devonian plants develop,
And if you care to notice,
It now has become so awesome
and overwhelming
That you do not dare to destroy it.

There --
You have reached the depths of your mind,
Away from the prejudicial biases
of the hypocrtical human world.

Alone

Bright.

Tapers all around you.

A glowing fire-ball right above you.

You are blinded by the light,
hounded by the heat.

Suddenly,
A sharp wind.

Dark.

Petering out smoke.

Smell of melting wax,
cindering wood.

You now have only yourself for company.