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. 

Damsel in Distress

She is being chased on a lonely road by a group of four people. She cannot run any more. She wants to keep running, she wants to save herself, but she is exhausted. She is just about to faint when she runs into the arms of a man at the turn of the road. She looks up at him but cannot see his face.

Veena always woke up at this point of the dream, panting, and then spent the rest of the day wondering who the man in the dream was. She’d had this dream quite a few times, and she worried that it may come true. She didn’t know how she would react if such a situation happened in real life. Or whether there ever would be a man to save her at the turn of the road.

Her friends said this was her repressed desire to be rescued from a dying relationship coming out subconsciously through dreams. Maybe. Her relationship with Suraj wasn’t exactly going well, despite the façade they maintained in front of the family. Five years of marriage and a baby had already taken a toll on their relationship. The spark was gone. There was no affection between them any more. They did not talk about anything except groceries, household expenses and the baby. Veena didn’t even remember the last time they made love. Of course she wanted to be rescued.

Though it was sacrilege to think that she would find someone else who would be interested in her, she often thought about having an extramarital affair. She wondered how people managed to have affairs – how did they find another person, develop trust, and fall in love all over again? She felt like she no longer knew what it is to fall in love. To be tactile and to want to be with each other all the time. To love and be loved. To be wanted, needed, pampered… Oh! Just the thought of someone giving her that kind of attention again turned her on.

Suraj and Veena had fallen in love seven years ago. She was doing her MBA and he had just finished MCA and was working in a company near her college. When they first met, she was waiting at the bus stop and he had come to drop his colleague there. He had taken one look at her and decided she was the one. And then the wooing, the motorbike rides, the secret one-day picnics where they first discovered their passions, the gifts – she was never short of attention. And the love-making was so good, so fulfilling. But by the time they had their wonderful, now two-year-old, son Veeraj, they had turned into parents of the child, and were no longer a couple. Suraj even slept off on the couch watching the TV nowadays.

***

It was a Saturday and she decided that she needed to relax a bit, hang out with friends, take a day off from being the mother and homemaker. She told the ayah she was going out in the evening and won’t be back until late in the night and to make sure the saab and Veeru have their dinner. She then dialed Suraj, but he did not pick the call. Must be another meeting, she thought in annoyance.

She called up two of her closest friends and fixed a dinner-and-club meet-up, much to their surprise. She chuckled as she heard Rekha scream from the other end of the phone, “Dude! You are coming to hang out with us! What happened, hubby jumped off the building?”

“Don’t be mean, silly. You know Suraj has never stopped me from coming anywhere with you gals. It’s always been me, unsure, depressed. But today I feel like shaking things up. I wanna drink, dance, just have fun, you know.”

“Good for you, babes! See you at 8 then!”

She was actually hoping to lay her hands on someone sexy and handsome at the club. A hassle-free one night stand. Just the thought of it was exhilarating. She decided that this called for special make-up.

She spent the entire afternoon pampering herself, warding off her son with video games and chocolates. She took a long bath in the tub with lavender-scented body oils, waxed herself free of body hair, blow-dried and curled her hair, gently massaged her favourite body lotion on to her supple skin, manicured her fingers and applied some baby pink nail polish, and dug up a pretty halter-neck magenta dress that complemented her figure well. And just as she was about to apply mascara to her eyelashes, the doorbell rang. She wondered who it could be. And to her horror, she heard the door open to the sound of Suraj hullo-ing Veeru. How could he be back so soon, that too on a Saturday! He usually went out with his buddies on Saturday nights.

She wondered what she should do – should she carry on, or walk down meekly, seek permission and then leave? Or should she cancel? But no, she did not want to cancel, so she decided that it would be best to pretend to take his permission first. She slipped out of the dress quickly and wrapped the bathrobe around her. Suraj walked into the bedroom a second later.

Suraj smelt her before he saw her. Then she smiled divinely at him and brushed his arm as she took the laptop case from him. He could not explain what came over him in that one touch. It was as if he had been blind all these years to the awesomeness of this woman before him. And before he knew what he was doing, he had enveloped her in his arms. He was kissing her neck, her earlobes, her shoulders. And she was giggling. She was moaning. She was beaming like an angel.

“Oh god, one minute, Suraj! Give me a second, I have to call Rekha and tell her I’m not coming!”

“Coming where?”

“Never mind, let me just make this call,” Veena giggled and wriggled again before dialling. She had to tell Rekha there was no damsel in distress to be rescued any more.

This is a blog written during Indiblogger Happy Hours for the Parachute Advansed Body Lotion #BringBackTheTouch campaign. Watch the campaign video below: 

The Old House

The old house,
seething in anger,
despondent,
distraught –
cursing wordlessly,
fought time.

Like its inhabitants,
it withered away slowly,
crumbled in places no one looked,
quivered ever-so-lightly in strong winds,
put up a brave front to visitors,
and waited.

It waited,
for the young ones to walk into it –
they ran around its vast porch once,
plucked juicy jamuns and tamarind from its garden,
fell on its high threshold,
slid on its smooth floors,
lit fires under its dark chimneys –

It waited,
for the stubborn little girl
who once found a snake
slithering amid firewood
and killed it –

It waited,
for the soft-spoken boy
who once dreamt of a demon
and wet his bed –

It waited,
for the little toddler
who once banged his head
on its door
and left liquid red patterns on the floor –

It waited,
for someone to look again,
and call the bluff
on its pretty façade –

It waited,
and wore itself out
with every passing hour.

The gates never opened
to let a young one in. 

The Days Before Humans Died

My dreams have become colourless, odourless, tasteless;

My nightmares come in all hues of 
hatred, 
fear, 
grief.


I yearn for the days 
when I did not have to wear saffron 
and detest green 
to live in peace.


I yearn for the days 
when symbols of religion were symbolic, 
and its tenets remained in the collective memories 
of no one in particular, 
while we circumambulated its edifices 
without a discordant thought or fanaticism. 


I wake up to news of 
communal riots, inter-religious skirmishes, deaths, rapes, sacrifices.
But now I do not even flinch. 


I yearn for the days
when the world contained more humans and less gods. 

Inheritance

I. From a daughter to her mother

A solid gold necklace

studded with jades and rubies;

A rack full of books -

Tolstoys, Dostoyevskys, Gorkys;

Old newspaper cuttings

of Republic Day Parades, The Emergency, P. Chidambaram;

Binaca toothpaste miniature animal collection,

old stamps, coins, film star cutouts -

You've given me a lot, amma. 

A royal lineage,

Regal bearing, 

self-respect,

a sense of independence,

a love for literature,

a thoughtful mind, 

sensitivity, 

politeness -

You've given me a lot, amma. 

A weak respiratory system -

sinusitis, allergies, 

wheezing, breathlessness; 

Blood pressure, 

diabetes,

psoriasis - freak cells,

weak bones - 

rheumatitis, arthritis,

You've given me a lot, amma. 

II. From a mother to her daughter

I have a lot to give you, my baby -

A name
    chosen with care
                un-mispronounceable;
Broad forehead
    tiny nose
                thick long hair;
A plethora of attributes -
    sensitivity, politeness,
                thought and care;
Myriad habits,
    collected over time
                from people, places, things;
Souvenirs of a nomad life -
    Rajasthani jewellery
                Kerala sarees
                            Gujarati cuisine;
A trunk full of folktales
    gathered from grandmothers,
                teachers and Tinkles;

A bunch of hereditary disorders -
    rotten breath, blood, cells,
                Forgive me for passing them on, will you?