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.