A Memoir and The Understatement

I discovered Flash Fiction Magazine through Twitter, when I began writing Twitter Fiction after Shiva Acharya, one of close friends and literary advisers (no, really!), exhorted me to be more regular on the microblogging site and try my hand at 140-character fiction. He thought I'd be wonderful with it, and as always, he was right.

A Memoir: This was first published in print in eFiction India in February 2014. Flash Fiction Magazine accepted it for publication in April 2014. The site had just been launched and at the time they had space to accept most of the works received, except if the work was really shabby. Now they have a waiting period and backlog, which means they are establishing themselves well already. Go, FFM! This story was also published later in Every Writer's Resource, in December 2014, accompanied by an artwork by Tommy Inberg. So far, this has been my most successful flash.

A Memoir was written in February 2014, inspired by a snatch of description of old furniture in Lilian Jackson Braun’s The Cat Who Tailed a Thief. Being a bibliophile, it is very easy for me to connect to books and regard them as living entities than as a dead tree that has been scrawled over with literary inanities. For how I empathise with a book, read the story.

The Understatement: This was written in October 2014 and published in the same month in FFM. I was trying to attain closure with this piece, and the related eBook My Heart is Your Brothel that I brought out through the free-to-use Papyrus Editor. I was infatuated by a younger colleague just like the protagonist in The Understatement, and it was important that I let the emotions out of my system in order to retain sanity in my behaviour with him as well as with others in his presence. Writing this flash and the set of micropoems (which were first distributed on Twitter before they were compiled into an eBook) helped me do just that - as well as helping me attain closure on the subject.

The story is not one of my best, but I've got some interest generated around it. My readers have seen it in two ways - some think the protagonist was married and that was the punch of the story, while others said they think the protagonist was making up the husband part in order to extricate herself from the situation. You read the story and decide what you want to think - maybe give me a few other viewpoints?

This compilation of my published works is also listed on Facebook in an album format. 

The Wait, The Body Takes Over, and Everyone's Poems

All three poems listed in this post appeared on Coffee Shop Poems, a repository of poems curated by Tim Knight (@coffeeshoppoems on Twitter).

The Wait, published in March 2014, on was among the poems written years ago. It first appeared on this blog on January 28, 2008, but again it is likely to have been written earlier than that. I do remember what I was feeling when I wrote this, though. It was one of those depressing days, where nothing interesting seemed to be happening to me. I was trying to capture in the words of this poem the feeling of loneliness that accompanies a wait for something or someone.

The Body Takes Over was published in April 2014. This is one of the poems that shamelessly celebrate the sexuality of women. I wrote three-four on this theme in late 2009, when I was going through a phase of being in and out of relationships. Rather than succumbing to feeling "like a slut", I decided to make myself feel privileged as the one who was not afraid of her sexuality and its consequences. This poem first appeared on this blog on November 29, 2009.

Everyone's Poems went up on the site in September 2014. Written in 2011 and first posted here on February 10, 2011, this bunch of micropoems is about little things that anyone can relate to. If I remember right, this was written in my early insomniac phase, when I used to sit after work into the wee hours, staring at the dark sky and hoping for more of the moon. The original entry had one additional poem than the numbers featured on Coffee Shop Poems, and I took it out before submitting because it did not seem quite relevant now.

This compilation of my published works is also listed on Facebook in an album format. 

Journey of a Poem - a poet's ramblings

So I’m finally taking time out to collate my published works. My foray into getting my works published began with eFiction India in February 2013. For more than six months, I sent my works only to eFiction India. In 2014, I vowed to try out other avenues, and so far, I’ve had some success in getting published. While the journey has been tough – you cannot imagine the ratio of rejections to acceptance – it has been highly rewarding and pleasant. Thanks to Sheikha A. for helping me figure out the submission process.

In this and the posts that follow, I shall write a two-bit about a published work with a link to the online display of the work, and any backstory to the piece or its publication, if worth mentioning.

Journey of a Poem (efiction India, Print – March 2013; online  – November 2013)

I don't even remember when this was first written. It was first posted on this blog on 19 November, 2009, so we must all assume it was written in that month, though maybe not on that day. Or maybe it was. I'm not in the habit of noting the date a piece is completed, so it's a little difficult for even myself to check my own progress in writing and narrative/thematic styles. But I more or less do remember the chronological order in which the works were written, and that is a little help.

I've noticed that many of my poems are about poetry or about the act of writing. While many literary journals do not like this theme, I'm reminded of Gulzar's words - spoken in a seminar in Mangaluru three years ago - that many poets write about poetry because that is closest to their heart.

And while you are here, go check out the eFiction India website. They do not have much content online, but purchasing the magazine or subscribing to it is worth the moolah. Huge amounts of upcoming talent! 

This compilation of my published works is also listed on Facebook in an album format. 

Funerals

I have attended
all my funerals -
buried my selves
with no pomp or show
except fitting tears
and beautiful elegies.
After each heartbreak
there would be a me -
an us, a memory -
to bury
and move on.
After each funeral
I have risen,
Restored,
Only to walk up to my
next funeral.
Every burial
has been more sombre
than the previous,
Every new elegy
more beautiful.
There's one last funeral
I need to attend
before saying 'hi' to you -
The burial of
my last sane self.

March 26, 2013

The Stench

I am saving my teardrops,
gathering them
one by one -
Now I have
a pool of them
somewhere inside me
where once there was
a heart
devoted to your moments.
Moments of love,
of laughter,
of tender fights,
of clamoured arguments -
Moments that have turned into memories
that the heart
cannot hold
any longer.
I have drowned them all
in my saved pool
of tears.
Now all there is
are rotten carcasses
of what once smelled of you.

March 24, 2013

Poetry

Poetry
Does not
Come out of
Well-layered thoughts
Or well-meaning ideas,
But through pain and restraint,
Insanity and poise,
With a little bit of happiness;
Poetry comes
When the world comes to you
In a flash of reality,
Well-imagined. 

Incomplete poem

I started a poem that I could not complete,

I wrote a verse I could not sing, 

I chased a dream I could not see, 

I failed a test I could not attempt; 

Life's stream passes me by, 

And I know not where to rest my feet – 

Darkness and light play games with me, 

I know not how to move on, nor give up. 

Verses have a way

of coming back when least expected; 

Like unheard stories 

they haunt the nights, 

And plague the days

with hazy images. 

My incomplete poem lingered on,

Till I could not rest, nor sleep;

And when I touched my pen today,

It flowed unabashed from the tip. 

The Sound of Silence

Silence sounds like the breath of a flower,
the heartbeat of a rock,
the kiss of the soil;
Silence sounds like the chatter of your eyes,
the words from your heart,
the depth of your thoughts;
Silence sounds like you and me,
cuddled on a couch,
sharing dreams and love.

- Dedicated to Jennifer D'souza

The Passing of a Stranger (Dug up from a 2006 hand-written note)

In the Dark, on a New Moon day,
On the barren land,
There walked a stranger on his way,
With a black pony at hand.

Clad he was in dark garments,
And his head was covered too;
On the pony were his saddlements,
Which were all of a dark hue.

His pace was slow, his footing sure,
And wary he was of arounds;
He looked prepared for anything to endure,
And stopped he at all uncertain sounds.

From afar he looked no crook,
Though sure one cannot be;
But one could discern by just one look,
That he was not pleasant to see.

Altogether a foreboding look he bore,
But then, the sky was dark -
So was the land and waters before;
Even a dog would have feared to bark.

He walked on, pursuing the poor beast,
To carry on with his tired hoofs,
An evil pair they looked, to say the least,
Though there can be given no proofs.

Steadily the Sun rose and the dawn crackled,
The foreboding look vanishing,
The rays struck every sand grain and they chuckled,
The pair now further wandering.

With the rise of the Sun, all was plain,
And the pony now looked so brown,
The man we doubted was a mere plebian,
Walking off on an errand of his own. 

Prayer (Dug up from a 2006 hand-written note)

Pray, pray to the Lord,
The Almighty; save me
Once and for always.
In return let me donate
A thousand quids
To your big temple.
They may use it
To pay the temple employees.

Pray that my son's studies
In the UK go unhindered.
My daughter be married off
Without hassles.
And my wife should stay
To serve me till the end.
Don't you take me away soon either -
I have just started my life
After retirement.

You pray and I pray;
The God will take care
of me and you and the others.
He'll solve our problems
While we sit and watch daily soaps,
For He is a magician.
You and I will take a dip
In the Ganges and be sanctified.
He'll be pleased.

Praise be to the Lord! He,
who listens to the prayers
Of you and me and the others. 

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.

Two Reality Bytes

I.
Wake Up.
Wake Up.
Wake Up.
Do not snooze the alarms.
It's alarming.

Wake Up.
The call is Intense.
You cannot ignore it anymore.
No. You should not.


Wake Up.
The bells are tolling.
You will be next
To be eaten by the demon of laze.

Wake Up.
Before it is too late.

Wake Up.

Wake Up.

Wake Up...!

II.
Love songs.
Sugar.
Pepper.
Chocolate candies.
Pink ribbons.
Jalapenos.

The world is too sweet.
Let us pour chilli sauce
On your cake,
Darling.

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.

Cannot write more

I cannot write any more.

I thought I told you this before,
But yes, I write for you.

I write of you,
of your thousand lovable gestures,
of your million quirks and faults,
of your innumerable thoughts and dreams.

They blamed me for writing only of love,
of an emotion well abused;
But they did not know it was inspired by you.

If they did,
they might have worshipped you, my muse.

And now,
You have gone away from my life
to find a way of your own;
Be a muse to someone else,
in some other way -
I know not what.

I thought I could find another muse,
and write on.

They came and went,
but failed to inspire,
to arouse me to a climax of poetry
that you so easily managed.

I still stare at your age-worn photograph
and try to write.
But,
I cannot write any more.

More love poems

I. Soft hands
When you first touched my hands
You said they were soft as a pillow
And kissed the palm as if it were a bud of rose.

Yesterday when I caressed your face
You turned away from me
Muttering, “Use some cream.”

I looked at my withered hands
And found scales and scars and wounds
Of fifty years of love.

II. In Love
Everyone said you and I were in love.

I laughed at them,
You scorned them.

Yet I buried my dreams in your smell,
You bathed in the radiance of my smile.

You and I
Were not to be chained by
Social labels and mores.
But we never realized
How chained we were
By hearts and souls.

Nights were a reason to wake up to make your brunch,
Days were a reason to enter the depths of my locks.

We still denied we were in love.
"We just need each other,"
We reiterated,
In the hope of convincing ourselves.

One morning,
She came in with a bubbly laugh and a cheery face,
Made your eggs and your bed,
Said she loves you,
and took you away.

All I did was gawp after you.
We were not to be chained by
Social labels and mores.
And we are not in love.

I laughed again.

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.

Conversations of a night

I.
Why, darling,
I'm sorry
I slept off before you finished your story.

What were you saying?
Oh yes, your father died when you were four,
Your mother was raped by his best friend
And you,
Yes you were sold to Thailand.

I am so sorry about that.
But I'm glad I came to Bangkok -
I saw such beautiful sights,
Such ravishing women -
And met you.

I had such a great night, thank you.
I'm going back to India tomorrow.
You take care.

Darling, you were awesome.
And so sorry about your parents.
Especially Mother, Yes.

II.
Did you dream today too?
Forget it.
This is it.
No moving forward.
Honey, the darkness is all you've got.
Enjoy its soothing, personal touch.

Your darkness is your alone, isn't it?
Find me a day that's yours.

No, don't aspire for it.
Stagnate.
There's bliss in it.

What?
You choose to move on?
And leave me alone?
All right.
Let melancholy be mine alone....

III.
The dawn brings promises
Of more memories, good and bad,
Of new acquaintances and relations,
Of fresh rays of hope and peace.

A cup of coffee in hand,
We savour the promises
and promise to do our best.

The phone rings.
Your father passed away
peacefully, in his sleep last night.

Suddenly you dread the dawn of the night
And the end of the smooth darkness.

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!

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.