The Blank Page

challenged me.

It dared me to write,

to speak my mind,

to be poetic,

to break the silence.

But my mind remained

blissfully apathetic

to the screams of the page

before me.

The page dreams

more than my mind these days.

My world is stagnating

Along with my soul. 

It's Your Turn (2004, Published in eFiction India April 2013)

“Do I have to stay here all my life?” She questioned me with such innocence that I couldn’t restrain my tears. Every young girl who has come to me has asked me the same question. And every time, I told them, “You don’t have to, dear, you don’t have to.”

It has been eighteen years since I entered this profession, and I’ve seen all sorts of lucky and unlucky girls. The lucky ones had their saviours sweeping them off to safer places, while others have stayed on to rot in the squalor. Like me.

“What do I call you?” the girl was asking.

Everyone around here has called me amma these eight years. Eight years. That is too long a time. Eight years ago, our old amma was on her deathbed and she had told me, “You’ll be the next amma.”

Amma.

The name commands respect and embodies motherly love. But how many can actually feel and exhibit that under the circumstances? I did not like our old amma, I just feared her. It is as likely that these girls now feel the same way about me. Not that this is a job I like. But I am helpless. I can do nothing at all, for I am chained. Chained to the wills of those around me. Amma is the matron, not the chief. She will never be one.

I clearly remember the day I was brought here. I was drugged by a man in the train. The tragedy struck when I was on my way to Vellore from my village in Trichy, to study medicine. 96% in my pre-university exams and I was the first girl in the village who had qualified to attend medical school. My father had prepared to send me to Vellore, to my paternal aunt’s house, but not without vehement protests from the elders of the village.

The entire village got together to organise a sabha and threatened to expel our entire family if I were to study further in such a distant place. Was it not enough that a girl had been allowed to study so much while she should be learning to cook and clean, that now she should be permitted to go so far away from her parents and pursue a life on her own?

But my father was a staunch believer in women’s rights and he stood up against the whole village. One by one the villagers were convinced of his resolute purpose and irrefutable arguments. All for the sake of his dear daughter in whom he believed. Whom he dreamt of as dressed in white, serving patients in the nearby Government hospital. And what luck that he should be sick on the day of departure and that she should travel alone.

Shattering his dreams and now serving…

When I opened my eyes, I was in a well-decked cot, complete with garlands of rose and mogra. I was bewildered. Where am I? What is going on? Am I dreaming?

As I wondered, the doors to the room opened and a big burly figure strode up to me. I cowered and withdrew into the corner of the cot. But those firm hands caught hold of me, and the aftermath has only remained as a subconscious memory. Oh, the agony of the moment! Even after eighteen years, I shudder at the thought of it – the struggle, the screams, the shame.

For hours after that first incident, I was totally unaware of what was going on. For two days, I lay in a subconscious state, alternately begging my father’s forgiveness and shouting for help. I remember a tight slap across my cheeks and slipping into blissful unconsciousness again, waking up only the next morning.

Amma came and talked to me, telling me I had no option but to stay. I was an absolute stranger to the city of Mumbai. The city where street boys turn into Bollywood stars, where crores are spent every day on entertainment, where a boy washing a car today could one day own a fleet of them.

But I had nowhere to go.

The red light district is like a prison; cordoned off from the city and yet so close to the people in it. It entertains men irrespective of caste and religion; people from all walks of life congregate here. We were unwanted, and yet in demand; scorned by the members of the same gender that should understand us, and looked down upon by the same gender that uses us.

Hmph!

Anyway, life has to go on. There is someone at the door already. Oh! It is 8 o’clock! Business will perk up.

“Oh Saraswati! Isn’t it your turn to go first today?”

Life (Dug up from a 2007 hand-written note)

I.
The sea of life
is spread before you.
You have to swim in it.
Not with the hopes of reaching the shores,
But with the dread of not being alive for another day.

II.
The monotony of life
Numbs you to quietitude.
And every time you move,
it hurts.
And so long it takes to come out of that numbness
That you lose every other sense.
In the end,
Nothing.

III.
Life is a long search
For love.

You find it,
lose it,
come across it accidentally.
Destroy it by chance,
Discard it,
Run after it...

It eludes you every time
And yet deludes you into thinking
that you have it.

The long search ends without triumph,
And yet you are happy. 

Abstract worries

A stray hair on the cheeks,

A chipped nail,

A wild dog’s bark two blocks away,

A lost pen,

The bus-friend’s leaking water bottle,

A neighbor peeping from his window,

An itch in the nose,

The loud-mouthed uncle,

The bum scratching when you are in a meeting,

A dozy moment in front of the boss,

A random forward mail,

A screechy cricket in the lawn,

Slow internet,

An unresponsive colleague –

O! what annoys you not

when a nagging thought chews upon your brain?

Ashes of memories

The cigarette butt began to burn,
And that foul, tarrish smell enveloped the fingers -
The last pinch of ash,
like withering human-years,
falls off the cigarette in a silent weep.
She turned to her reflection in the mirror,
And her charred lips spoke of a love
taken away.

In the end the butt has to be thrown off -
Having sheltered the line of tobacco
Until its embers melt in the altar
of human yearning
and unspoken pains.

Her eyes glinting like sunshine upon the river,
Her face rigid as platinum,
She picked the last spot of ash
and tasted its scorched remains;
They arouse memories of the nights
When cigarette butts and ice cubes splayed on the floor
Alongside naked bodies and satin sheets.

The taste of alcohol from the lips that parted to whisper her name,
The smell of smoke settling into her hair
like his skin on hers,
The nights that turned into day without a flicker of sunlight,
And half-eaten pizzas awaiting stray consumption.

The cigarette is burnt again,
And the butt has singed her fingers,
But the smell of love that wraps her being
lives on through the ashes of memories.

Observation

I watched
silently
As the men,
lanky and oiled,
lifted the corpse on their
dark shoulders,
And the women stood aside,
eyes awash with tears of losing a friend,
daughter, sister;
I sat in the same corner
Where my little brother once
threw a glass piece at me
and jagged my face
Into that permanent
red zigzag of a lightning
and I got scolded
for leaving the glass in his hands;
Where my mother once cornered
me, to scorn my incompetence at
the stove, where I burnt my palm
in boiling oil;
Where my father struck me with a belt to
Wash me of the sin of
Having eaten before my brother...

I watched
silently,
As the men walked
away from me,
Not caring to look behind and see
my heavy tears
dragging my cheeks down
and distorting my vision
Of the nightmares I once withstood
with a stoic face
perhaps inherited
from an old grandmother
Who lived short but served
the family with more sons
than her womb could have borne;
They walked ahead,
carrying the body in their bony arms,
and everyone looked,
cried,
sniffed,
said things they were taught to say
at someone's death.

I watched
silently,
As my shrouded body went farther away,
Taking with it the pain,
the sorrow,
the grief,
the memories
that kept my tiny heart alive. 

The moment

It’s in the moment that time freezes.

All our lives,

We all wait for the moment.

The moment when love will shine on us,

From the beyond,

From the horizons of the universe,

From the depths of our souls….

The moment,

When nothing is defined

And yet you find a meaning

Unlike you’ve ever met.

The moment,

When everything is distorted

And yet the shape guides you,

Protects you,

Ensconces you….

The moment,

Lasting forever in the depths of your memories,

Walking up to you unawares

And throttling you into a self you never knew existed.

That moment,

My friends,

Is what you and I are worthy of.

The destination set upon us by Time.

The movement held still,

The silence of voices

Penetrating the calm of our existence.

It’s in the moment that time freezes.

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.

Trust

I love the rains,
They soothe me so.
And when the rain clouds
Hovered above me,
Threatening to pour,
I laughed at them.

Bring it on, I said,
Unknowing of their plan for me.

I wish I did not trust the rains so much.

Now I am drenched as the soil beneath the river,
And the sun is nowhere to be seen.

They called it so

A vague little glee, And they called it Love. A tense little moment And they called it Fear. A slight anxiety And they called it Stress. A mere numbness And they called it Death.

I.
"Leech!" She shouted at her,
"You're living on stolen blood."
"It's love, madam,
not stolen, but borrowed."
"Yes, he lends it to you
out of pity,
But that is due to me,
Hence you are but a lowly thief!"
And with that she branded me.

II.
Imposing skyscrapers
wrought in iron and glass,
gobble up suited-and-booted people every morning
and spew them out like vomit by twilight.
These suits and boots and skirts and heels
go on in a clatter,
unaware of their repeated
Ingestion, Digestion and Excretion.

III.
The fly in my hand
wiggled like a maggot
clipped of her wings.
And I, the sadist,
laughed of the tickle from her hairy body
on my soft palm.

Everyone's poems

I.
Tears hijacked his dreams,
Fear overtook love.
In rotating ceiling fans
And rolling hips of dancers,
He searched for them both.

II.
I sold myself to the wrong people,
The wrong people solicited my souls.
Amid a flurry of wrongs,
My heart set out to claim some rights.

III.
The blue veins shone through her fair skin,
And the knife in her hand glistened.
The brightness of the red spilled
Was also never disputed.

IV.
Rheumatism, Arthritis, Blood pressure, Insomnia;
There was no ailment she was not proud of.

V.
Inhale,
Exhale,
Dust, smoke, CO2, NO and a little oxygen.
The human is contented.

VI.
There's nothing to cry for in grief -
Too common, Too plebian, Too low.
There's nothing to laugh in glee -
Too fickle, Too smug, Too depraved.
The saint sought them all in saffron,
And God.
Amen.

Her and me (and sometimes him)

NOTE: It is quite fascinating to imagine a third person between two - be it friends, lovers or even parents or siblings. My imaginations of the same produce the following poems, and some before that [You and I (and sometimes another)]. Some of the imagery may be repetitive, but feel the grip of that invisible third person as you read these. Enjoy!

I.
Every time I look for him, she comes before me.
Every time I think of him, her memory becomes vivid.
Every time he talks to me, she sneers from behind his shoulder.
I am shadowed by her ghost that lives with him.

II.
She doesn't need to be called,
She doesn't need to be known,
She doesn't need a name,
She doesn't need no fame:
I know it is her, and she knows it is me,
And there begins the story of her, me and him.

Secret Palimpsest

A secret,
multi-layered,
lies in my bosom.

Its layers, all there, but not-so-there,
Like a palimpsest,
It attracts all audience,
And gives new meanings to all.

Everyone can have a layer to take with them,
And all can be satisfied.
But only I know the volume of its inscriptions,
And unaware to them,
Decide what layers they are served.

I make meanings for them,
I complete their understanding,
And yet they gloat at what they learnt,
And yet they pride at each possessed layer.

My secret shall be entombed
In my selective memory
In the absyss of my mind
And the chambers of my heart -
You shall see a part
And like the blind feeling the elephant,
Be happy with what you know.

The Smells We Live By

It's the smells we live by.

A whiff of wet earth,
fertile like the ready-to-receive-you woman on the bed inside,
Drive you towards her smell.
And when you awake
from a dream full of sighs, moans and orgasmic raptures,
It's the smell of cigarettes you seek.

Or, maybe it's coffee and tea that calms you,
and, along with Coorgie fragrances or Assamese delights,
A little of strong eucalyptus,
Or the light menthol-tainted Vicks
can soothe your throbbing head.

Late evening,
And the unassailable-but-attacking breeze
from the kitchen
Tells your stomach it's time.
Ravenous smells -
of jaggery, spices and more -
Gobble you up in a frenzy.

You walk along the road,
And penetrating wasps of grey air
tell you how crowded the city is.
Choking, wheezing, strangling smokes
of vehicles, burning tobacco, construction gravel and roting garbage
Leads you on to find your space within.

In your office,
The stagnant AC-ed air,
carrying the breath-odour of your colleagues,
Their sweat and saliva and semen-smells,
Their cologne and perfumes and deodorants,
Mingle with yours
and settle down upon the fabric of your life,
Uncomplainingly.

It's the smells that we live by.

An eternal tale

A long folk-tale is my life,
Re-embellished with each narration,
Re-tarnished with each vituperation -

A long ceaseless ballad,
An epic of gargantuan passions,
No scale to measure,
No depth to unravel -

Curved around each letter,
Hanging on to each word,
A blood-sucking leech,
A slimy slug,
An itchy caterpillar -

A tale of fantasy,
Of repulsion,
Of monstrous proportions -

Meted out in scoopfuls,
To prisoners within my tale,
Thus turning them cannibal,
And becoming a phoenix, a self-creator.

A long folk-tale is my life,
And I shall live in the words as much as in breath.

On heartaches and faults

I.

It wasn’t his fault,

Nor was it mine;

And yet guilt hangs around us all the time

Like mist in Coorg,

Or Nainital.

We met one day and parted

with such a deep wound in hearts

that it tore them to shreds,

Like an enlarging tear on clothes.

II.

I lied to him

That I was a virgin.

You are the first to touch me, I said,

And he hugged me in delight,

Slowly sliding his hands up my skirt.

I did not flinch.

He immediately withdrew.

No. you’re not a virgin.

You’ve seen men before.

I don’t want you, he said,

And moved to the next girl in the line.

III.

My heart ached, and the sun smiled at me.

My heart ached, and the sun said goodbye across the sea.

My heart ached, and the moon turned bright and round.

My heart ached, and the moon blackened its visage in grief.

My heart ached, and the winds sang to me.

My heart ached, and the winds roared at my window.

My heart ached, and the dust rose up in a cheer.

My heart ached, and the rain invited me for a dance.

My heart ached… and Mother Nature said, Move On, child.

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.

Shakespeare effect

I.
Yonder goes the heart
that slayed mine,
And I, the greater his slave for that,
Fall at his feet
for mercy or refuge;

What pleases it,
Shall please me fine,
If it be love,
None so great,
And if slavery and mock,
I gently assent.

II.
Why, what drives thee hither, O peasant!
What makes thee crave for things pleasant?
Dost not thy field feed thy stomach?
Wouldst thou not be pleased by roast duck?

Thy hut, I swear, is the safest shelter,
Thy hospitality, an iron-rod melter.
Thy wife, whose smile can win a tiger,
Is worth more 'an ton-pounds of pure wheat fibre.

Alas! I can do noth but scribble,
In auld tongue, all I can do is dribble,
Thy life is unmatched, O pretty lad!
Forget the city, palaces, brilliance - and quit the fad!