Between Her and Me

Out-of-tune

Making a mound of clothes and bags

With books I ought to read ,

I turned my back to it

And surrendered, yet again,

To the pleasures I can't deny.

I close my ears,

No, I don't want to hear

My nagging voice-small but

Pinching to the core.

I know what I am doing

No, I don't want to know

With my nose deep into

The yellowed pages

In an attempt to sip

A gulp of the mastery

Ah! the tantalising taste.

My left hand blinkers my vision

I don't want to see the mirror

It mocks me, imitating my actions

With back turned

To the mound of clothes and bags

With books I ought to read.

A finger on the right

Steadily following the dancers

Moving to the tunes of distant lands

Dancers in black,

Charming me to the distant lands.

My little voice sings along

Out of tune, about mounds of clothes

And bags with books.

Don't stop dancing as yet dears

Let me have another sip.

The manna tastes different now

It has turned rancid now.

My back to my love

My mistress unhappy,

A sacrilege to them

Or myself- I might never know

I might never want to know.

Delhi Summer Blues

Feeling hot, hot, hot!!!

A Reminder on Earth's Day!

Happy Earth's Day to all!


Yes, I am from the jungles, born in Nature's lap. Trees and flowers in the garden were the first friends I knew. The smell of freshly cut grass to me is more appealing than your room freshner. When I wanted solitude, I went to the bank of the pond, to look at ripples scattering the hundreds of thoughts in my mind till I finally could feel the rhythm. Nothing set off butterflies in my stomach like the sight of crimson skies in the west did, with the breeze on my face, bringing with it the fragrance of the eucalyptus. Sound of the raindrops on the tin roof, eating mangoes right off the trees, counting stars at night in a blanket of fragrance from the frangipanis and the jasmines and many more such beautiful things: all I owe to this bountiful Earth.

Too dramatic! But the point is: today is Earth's day and I have decided to start another series of posts on how to care for our planet. I have so far resisted writing the overly science-y stuff on Environmental science, conservation and Ecology laden with jargons. What we really need are pointers on what are the things each one of us can actually do in our everyday lives, without feeling like giving away a limb and some fingers! (Though personally, I think even that could be done if that was what was required of us!). The reason? Well, most people I know are quite environment conscious but have no clue how they could contribute individually without being a scientist or an activist.

Before I start, I would also like to acknowledge the book which gave me the idea: 365 ways to save the Earth by Philippe Bourseiller. I came across this stunning book in our university library when I was doing my M.Sc. and was captivated by the beautiful photographs and bowled over by the simple ways enumerated in it, in which we can make a positive difference to our planet. I shall pick those pointers from the book, which are applicable in our everyday lives here in India, particularly Delhi and Imphal, my hometown (with due acknowledgement of course!); while also adding others which are relevant locally. 

So, let me start with the one about which I have the least to say:

1: Join a library instead of buying books.

This one will be really difficult for all the book lovers out there, including myself. But I promise to genuinely put an effort. I have started it already. I had thought of buying this book but now I will go to the library instead! 

Tectonic revenge on the statue of unity!

Built on shaky grounds
Your statue, tallest in the world
Of lifeless concrete.
They might agree but I don't.
Enlisting peoples with guns and might
Do not a nation make.
I won't join the chorus
When the country sing 
Paeans to the iron man.
I shall laugh and blow
The snot from my sinuses
When Nature takes her course
Taking you down in one shift
Of the tectonic plates
As if in one amorous turn
The whore of GB road
Shook you off like a used condom
From her stained shamed sheets.
You deserve no more than a blowjob
From the castrated eunuch monarch
Who wrote off lives and dreams
Of a throbbing populace
Leaving behind throngs of patriarchs
Moral guardians of an assumed identity
Bastards born out of wedlock
When the thugs left their impregnated
Wide-eyed whores in charge
Of sissies who know no more
Than singing in temples
Or shooting down their kins
With bullets or words
It matters not when bloodshed
Leaves astray amputated spirits
In piles on heaps of dung
In some cesspool where
The dogs and starved bastards
Fight over pieces of shit
Dragging sanity down into the whirlpool
Of the stinking sludge of pandemonium.

I hate you, AG!

You can Howl,
You can growl
All you want, I don't care
All you need, seriously, I don't care!

Your jazz is jarring,
The thought of you irritating!
You left me in a haze,
Leaving me in a daze.

You can howl for Solomon
Or cry for Ineton
You can grovel all you want
For me you're an infidel cunt!

All I wanted was to know you
And if all went well, befriend you
But you left me wanting to cry
Go fuck yourself, just try!

To you, with love

Let me kiss you once more

As in the days of yore

The crimson of your face

I might never match

But let me try.

Let me catch the golden sighs

And the sweet moans.

Let me plant a kiss on your brow

The flicker of your lash-

Is it pink,

Or a hue uncertain?

Here, place your palm on my bosom warm,

Let me set you ablaze- a fiery red,

Mellowed down to a shimmer,

Amber, the orange will last longer.

Let me drench you in my love, my love,

Mix this violet and blue

And a happy yellow too, before it dries 

A rainbow for you dear, all seven colours true.

Something's missing,

Please don't cry,

I stole an indigo from the sky

For a glimpse of your smile.

Let me satiate you with a green

Which shade will you have?

Emeralds and bowers in spring

Pale before the colour I can feel.

Ah! Here it is

Green of the ocean deep

Unfathomable as my feelings deep

A brush here and a touch there and a final kiss.

I'll come back again my love,

Your picture in my heart I bear

I'll hang it on my wall, dear

To remind me of the love we made

I'll surely come back for more dear.

Untitled

The cold wind creeping upto me,

The eerie sound of the bark flaking away,

Coming on fast like an approaching train.
One day the circumference will be covered,

Leaving me naked, unprotected.

No, I'm not ready yet,

The wind pierces my soft skin,

The sun charrs my innocence.

I still need the warm, woody blanket, the fragrant viel of Love.

How I want to hold on to you!

But with no arms, I'm helpless.

Look! I'm perspiring- the agonising shivers it sends through me.

Each passing second thumping on my chest like a dagger.

See I'm bleeding,

With each piece forced away from me.Can't You see?

Let me die with my bark,

Or I'll bleed to death anyway.

Don't you want to see for yourself, asks the Voice,

How the morning breeze feels like in early spring?

The summer heat which tests every drop of patience you can muster,

The freshness of monsoon drizzling over you, promising a new shoot,

The cozy warmth of closeness in the winter, pray, don't you want to feel?

The care of the old will never fade.

Look on your body, each departing fibre has left an impression,

You are, but a mould of the old Cast.

A living testimony of the cocoon that once was.

Don't dissappoint the imago, whimpering like a losing soul!

Yeah! The imago has to complete the circle.

But the young bark? What about it?

It'll stay moist- delicate and tender,

Lest the trickle of sweet scent should dry up,

And leave me thirsty till I die, thirsty for more.

Love's Labor Lost?

Two war-worn soldiers, exhausted

With bloodshot eyes for lack of sleep

Hands trembling from finger-pointing and trigger-pressing.

They meet at a tavern where the wounded lick their wounds.

They recognise each other from afar,

Uniforms shouting out what they stand for, or what they stood for?

A wry smile, only the defeated could empathise.

A sip of liquor is all they need

To open the dam and flood out pent-up emotions.

Words of emptiness and causes lost

Of being tired and carrying on,

And of giving up and forgiving the giving up.

“I don’t hate you”, said one to the other.

Said the other, “Neither do I”.

“I want freedom”; of soul, and spirit and indigenous shit

Freedom to create one’s own hell-hole, one’s own mess.

Why! It’s liberating to pee on one’s own walls,

Defecate wherever one wants to, fill the nostrils with stench

Of one’s own making. Keep the fire burning. Revolution on a pyre

Of yellowed pages, history, identity, humanity and much more.

“I want freedom too”. To live, breathe, create. To be.

Without asserting, shouting, fighting or victimizing.

Born an animal, an animal I want to be.

Who are we fighting and what for?

A space our own, miles of fields and forest cover,

Or a patch, six feet or lesser still, over layers

Of wisdom, into dirt this cacophony.

Where trees fruit to die giving way to new rush of lives,

Moving on where old roots don’t suffocate, inhibit, amputate

Where change is without regret, unapologetic. Evolution.

In the melee I want to thrive, sweat and deserve this breath.

This futility. Demanding what’s no one’s to give. What’s ours to begin with.

Freedom? First a look into the mirror, a cold, long, stare into the deep.

 To accept, scrutinize, criticize, circumcise the shitty fuss.

 Staring down the barrel, laughing at oneself, begin!

8th March, 2015

The eighth of March comes every year. Every year I get reminded of the post I never wanted to write. How clichéd it is: a woman writing about women on International Women’s day! Yet, here I write, only, I remind you, to get it over with.

I have been accused by men of being a feminist on many occasions, for example that instance when I insisted one person’s effort (mine) was enough to take down the 100g or so poster off the stand ( No, thank you. But please ask again when I have a boulder to move or a body to bury!). I might be guilty as charged but I vehemently refuse to be labelled a feminist if it’s the men-hating, bra-burning, armpit-hair-flaunting kind that you are emphasizing.

That I am not, for the simple reason that I love being a woman without playing the victim card. I like looking good and dressing well for the sake of it. I like smelling good and maintaining hygiene. And to the accusers: have you stopped for once and mulled over the fact that, what you perceive as feminism on my part could, in reality, be a manifestation of your own chauvinism?

I love men. I appreciate their sensitivity when they open/hold doors, pull chairs and walk slowly when I’m in heels or their generosity when they offer to pay for meals (though not every time for sheer practicality because if I like you I’ll ask you out a lot!). I get thoroughly impressed when a man offers his seat in a bus without being asked. I marvel at their evolved need to protect. I enjoy their attention, care and love. However, when situation demands, I can easily play my part and switch roles too. I can back up my end of the game. I have the heart and means to return these favors and more when called for/not. All that, without the slightest bit of resentment or judgement.

Everyone talks about gender equality. An evolutionary biologist might have a different take. Sexes exist to ensure genetic variation resulting in better adapted progenies in the event of changed environmental conditions. Men were hunters and protectors and women, nurturers. Mankind evolved and societies changed. Today, these roles are no longer so well defined but the imprints of gender-based roles or the tendency towards them still manifest.  Hence, I’m more inclined towards gender justice. It seems to be a more evolved goal to strive for. But the prerequisite requirement is not easy to attain on the part of both men and women: to relinquish our complexes, whether superiority or inferiority.

I simply refuse to assert or demand respect or equality. Let there be only skills, abilities and opportunities together with compassion and sensitivity and nothing else. No feeling ashamed or shaming. Let there be empathy and not sympathy, more efficient management and usage of resources without squabbles on who does what. No patriarchy, or matriarchy for that matter, let the wiser prevail over a situation. No prejudices, only reason. No dependents and providers, only partners. Let there be objectivity and elimination of denigrated idiosyncrasies; more dialogue and understanding.

Too much to ask for? All I am saying is, my dear man, I promise to open the door when you have a big bag of groceries just for the same reason you held that very door open without letting it swing at my face, without much ado! Happy women’s day! 

His Mistress' Love

You, the fickle mistress,
My life, this life.
Tantalising me
With your whims.
Fuck! The intrigue.

In my grip this moment,
Not, the next.
I own you, or so I think,
Or so I want to believe.

I own you in this flesh and blood,
These muscles and sinews,
This beating heart.
Or not. You slip away.
In moments, seconds and the
Ticking of the second's hand.

You slippery whore!
In my grasp I dream,
I awake with your train in my hand,
Only the end. It slips too.

I feel you in the lover's kisses,
The touch that sends shivers
Rising in tides, come crashing down too
Into drops, a thousand and one.

Everything, yet nothing.
This mighty spirit claws into this flesh.
I rule you. I command you.
Or not! That mocking laughter I can't control.

I let you slip, exasperated.
I chase you. I beg you.
I serenade and seduce you.
Only in death will I own you.
Or not.

"Bharat ka rehne wala hoon, Bharat ki baat sunata hoon"

My first overseas trip and that too to the land of dreams, the U. S. of A! California made up in their lifestyle for what they lacked in landscape. I had gone to attend a couple of workshops and a symposium. I met a lot of people, made friends with quite a few and had a great time. Not surprisingly, everyone was very surprised that I was an Indian. “You don’t look or sound like an Indian!” had become part of my conversation with everyone. And quite graciously I did my part to educate many about the north-eastern region of our country.

Bar hopping in the downtown area was one activity I indulged in thoroughly. One such evening after dinner and a few rounds of fancy cocktails, we decided to finish off with a tequila shot each. I ended up doing three shots! But that’s another story. Where we had our shots was a nice small bar with groovy music and some clear space by the tables which served as the dance floor. We ran into another group of people from the symposium, awesome people from different South American countries and one Indian guy, led by one of our hosts, a friendly latina working in the host university. We drank, danced and had a lot of fun. We talked to each other about science, America and our native countries. 

Just then I overheard one of the Brazilian guys saying to the Indian, “She is also from India but she doesn’t look like an Indian at all!”. To that my countryman said, “Oh! She must be a Tibetan or a Nepali”.  I hadn’t expected that coming from a man who’s traveled all the way to the USA to pursue the highest degree in academics. As an alien in a different country, my us-against-the-world camaraderie with every other Indian I came across lay in irretrievable pieces on the dance floor. What had become a mundane occurrence in the streets of Delhi, to which I had grown insensitive pinched a lot inside that American bar. 

My initial shock of disappointment was overcome by a wave of anger but before I even reacted amusement washed over me at the fact that he looked ridiculously stupid! I went back to my dancing and my pleasant English company. I couldn't help wondering if another century or more of British rule could have knocked some sense into the racially exclusive and culturally bigoted Indian psyche and had they knocked up a lot more, we could have been one big happy family of bastard children of political harlots!

The Bus Diaries III

I was going to work. I boarded the usual bus and sat down in one of the seats reserved for women. It was pretty crowded, as usual. The bus moved along at an idyllic pace that day (quite unusual) and everyone settled in their positions. It was a spring morning but the days were getting hotter by the day. Thankfully, the woman by my side stood some comfortable inches away.

There was a young girl sitting in the seat just in front of mine. Two men were standing near her. The younger one of them was standing uncomfortably close to the girl, who fidgeted in her seat visibly uneasy with the proximity of a man’s crotch near her face. He bumped into her shoulder, again and again. Even a blind could tell she wanted some space and a little respect.

The other man, who was older, and I witnessed what was unfolding in front of us. I looked at him and then at the younger man. Then something happened. After a few seconds the older man stepped in, moved to his side forcing the younger man to step away from the girl. Not a word spoken.

I felt like clapping and giving him a thumb-up. I thought, “We need more of such people.” I felt delighted and gave him a smile. He made my day!

I so wish my story had ended at the last sentence. But it continued. The girl stood up and escorted by her protective father and savior, got off at the next bus stop. I was almost disappointed.

I still wish my story had ended four sentences ago.

The Bus Diaries II

Today, in the morning I got onto a crowded bus to come to work. Taking advantage of the crowd, a man behind me touched my buttocks.

An indescribable mixture of anger, disgust, hatred and shock came over me and I asked, “Haath kahaan jaa raha hai tera?” Feigning innocence, he refused he did anything wrong. I said I could call the police and then no one would reach anywhere on time today. He mocked at me asking me to go ahead. His thick face with cheeks hanging heavy on either side, he contorted his thick lips, which looked like the labia of a whore’s cunt. And for the first time in my life I shouted “chuttiya” in public. I didn’t intend to call the police, though I could have, because I was going to work and I wanted to reach there on time. Just like anyone else.   

Today, in the morning I got onto a crowded bus to come to work. Just like everyone else. But a man behind me touched my buttocks.

And I wonder why. 

Topsy Turvy Land

A failed state. This is how Manipur was described in an article in a leading newspaper in English. Every inch of the two centre pages screamed how all is lost in the land of doom. I believed it. For the articles came at a weak moment of anguish when the economic blockade crossed its 100th day.

Cross the thousands of kilometres to the state and one feels the grim picture painted in one's mind is true indeed. The dusty roads and the faded buildings do nothing to cheer you up. Spend a few days in the lull and you see how life actually is. In the face of all the hardship, people actually live it up! Long term solutions to the problems marring the state might take a very long time to come, but for every sticky situation, the people seem to find a way out.

One of the favourite problems people like to cite everytime is the inefficient supply of electricity. Ever since I can remember, people have set their daily routines around the loadshedding schedule of the electricity department. It first started with electricity cut every 4th day. Then the cut became more frequent- every 3rd day and now it's every 2nd day. And on the days people get electricity, the duration is so short that we joke about it saying, one day is mei mutpa numit ( the day when there's no light) and the other is mei muthatpa numit ( the day when they don't supply light). I remember studying by the candle light, petromax or kerosene lamp as a kid. May be it did some good as I could study with absolute concentration as there used to be nothing to see in the dark around to distract me. Few families did use generators but it was never economically feasible for everyone.

Then came the irrepressible wave of invertor usage. The bigger the batteries, the better it was. One could forget eating his or her lunch but never to charge the batteries. Before people understood its working, inverters used to be switched on and off manually. They got wiser very soon and made the switching automatic. The batteries got upgraded to bigger ones. But the scarcity was still acute. There were times when one could never charge the batteries enough to get through one night till dinner was over.

People got wiser still. First came the CFLs instead of the regular bulbs and tubelights, to illuminate homes longer for the available amount of eletricity. Then came the LEDs and solar chargers. Now, you go to any household and you will see several of these. Here I would like to take a few words to thank the traders of the international market in the border town of Moreh for the regular supply of the needed articles. Every home has gone solar and hence green! Traffic lights too are solar powered. The changes I mention here are not those welcomed by the few aware citizens, but waves of masses adapting to newer technologies, compelled by needs, to make lives slightly more livable. Indeed, necessity can make things happen which years of awareness campaigns on efficient usage of electricity failed to do.

People must be commended for their undaunted spirit to survive. When the loadshedding started, our greatest woe was ice-cream disappeared from the local stores except for very few in the main market. But now, all a kid needs to do is find an ice cream vendor with a generator! My brother and his friends would many a times pool in their saved pocket money to buy a litre of petrol to run the generator so that they can watch their favorite animated series. As he puts it, the people of Manipur  will, after some years, mutate and be able to see in the dark. I say, amen.

The Abyss

 I fetched water from deep oceans blue,

All my strength’s worth and more

Poured into the Well. Oh! Silly me.

The precious jewels I dug in caves dark as night

I threw them all in, yellow ones first

Then in went the reds.

I picked the white,

Each cut reflecting brilliance on my face,

In it went. It fell and fell.

It only fell.

Not an echo of a wall struck.

Not even the sound of a splash.

Only hollowness, it traversed.

In went the sleepless nights

Tears cried on the lonely pillow.

Angry words died in the bottomless pit too.

Hopes of It overflowing thrown in bales

Wreathed in the songstress’ odes.

The Pit never fills.

Withered flowers, ashes of poems burnt,

The warm breath on shivering nights,

Remembrances of the fondest kind.

Take them, please. Take all of them.

As an abyss must. And barter, if you want.

Pay not in kind, if you wish not.

Do so in dreams I dreamt,

And in seconds and sighs and drops of tears.

The Bus Diaries I

When, as a hungry-for-adventure undergraduate student, I came to Delhi, one of the first things which I found praiseworthy of the city was its efficient and well connected bus service run by the Delhi Transport Corporation( DTC).One can go to almost every nook and corner of the state by bus, which I found pretty amazing.

This is one of (hopefully) many posts which will be coming up on my experiences as a commuter on the buses and roads of Delhi, to and from my lab. I thought I suffer enough already and every day, so why not use the torture as a food for thought. Yes. That's constructive. I always used to enjoy my bus ride before I lost it all in the humdrum of everyday grind and of late, the one and half hour I spend to and fro apiece, was becoming a little taxing. It prompted me to think about applying for a hostel room in the University Hostel for women, which I didn't want to. I had almost lost my sense of humour. So, this is an attempt at rejuvinating my spirits. Here, I'll recount funny and not-so-funny anecdotes which I become involved in or become a spectator to, during my daily bus rides.

Let me start with some incidents which happened earlier as today's travel was so mundane. Once, I was returning to my hostel in North Delhi from a lab. in Okhla in the late afternoon in the summer of 2008. I had got a summer fellowship from the Indian Academy of Science and was doing my summer internship in that lab. That meant it was summer vacation and I was not home.

On my way back, this guy came to where I was sitting.He asked me if he could sit there if I didn't mind. I thought "Sit wherever you like" but said, "Oh yes". He gave a congenial smile, which I returned. He told me he had just come to Delhi and joined an office that day itself. I found him bothersome at first, because in Delhi talking to strangers is not always a good experience. He said he was from Rajasthan. I don't remember his name. He asked me what I did. I said I was doing my masters, to which he said I looked "like a baby". This was a really amusing way of putting what had become a common comment on my looks.

We travelled together for a very short duration but he did leave an impression on my impressionable mind. He said, "We met by chance today and we will meet again if destined, it would be nice if our paths crossed again. Aise hi toh log milte hain (that's exactly how people meet)." I've not met him again. Perhaps, he came for a fleeting moment carrying a message to remind me of the small world we live in with the multitude of people, carrying with themselves stories to pass on to someone who'ld listen and hopefully understand. Its interesting how it added to a feeling I had grown up with all along, that I'm a traveller at heart, a wanderer. And it seemed the journey had just started.

Happy Valentine's Day!

                   

I was sitting at one end of the bench in front of the stereo deck, he on the other end. A balmy evening in early spring. As heavens would have conspired for it, the tube light was not working. Dimly lit by only a lamp in one corner of the room. "Dil hai chhota sa" from the movie Roja, playing in the background. It was just perfect. I could see his face from the side. He was really enjoying the music and perhaps, my company too. My heart skipped a beat. He was my first crush.


He said, "..so you got first in class in the finals, huh?" I blushed and said, "Hmm". He seemed really impressed. I had just got the results of my 3rd standard exams and he had already dropped a year after his 12th board exams. He, of the ruffled hair, black leather jacket and vrooming Rajdoot bike, was so out of my reach. It was as if my heart's strings were plucked on by the roaring of the 350cc engine, which announced his arrrival every evening. Sigh! 

It was pure adoration, unadulterated. I so want to call it love, but with no Valentine's day fuss or expectations of any sort. Simple, innocent love. A very short story which got lost in the deluge of growing up, it was just a beginning of an ever continuing romance with life and men. 


Here's to all my crushes, ex'es, dear friends and loved ones, 
Happy Everyday. Stay loved.