Wednesday, February 1, 2017

A Day in A Metro

 I had written this poem for performing, but I felt I should also keep it for posterity on my blog. Casual touching that takes place in metro is often not talked of in serious terms, no matter how serious it is. Here is my piece about it:

Delhi metro 
Is the first and 
Probably the last
Love 
Genuine love
You know what they say
Love of a kind 
That one true love 
I will ever have 
But like any other true
Love, it had to end. 


Metro, oh metro. You look so beautiful tonight. 
Today , you would be carrying me from one world to the another,.in a smooth ride, consensual ride, ride we signed up for together, forever. 
Metro so many go inside you, but I want to feel your insides and as soon as my destination arrives I want you to remember me, metro. I will be back. For you. 
The way the metro enters inside
The station and there is
A cool breeze that 
Brushes past you
Elevates you and you want it to come closer
Deeper
Much more in tandem
With your position at the station 
You, enter inside the metro
As it enters inside you.You and metro. One and the same. 
You search for a compartment, the perfect compartment where you can sit on the metro, in the metro, with the metro, make love to the metro.

The one coach reserved for women. Ah. Should I. Shouldn't I. You think of the consequences of having so many of your type around you you feel the pangs of ensuing jealousy already you decide no no, let's go, let's take a leap of faith and go to the general compartment and be open, wild, organic, raw, with your love. Ride it, ride in it, as you stand. 
As you stand in the metro with the pole as your lover, you hang by it, you feel you are not so alone in this act...

Slowly, slowly you feel a hand go behind your waist, around it, slowly going down, touching your hips, feeling your ribs, no, that's not what I signed up for, no, metro, no, this isn't you, isn't you, metro, it is some one else metrometro, why is this happening when I am supposed to be inside you, and not have someone force themselves inside me, the hand, the hand goes down. I touch it, it throws my hand away, I look at it and it smiles and says shushhhhh...
this is what is it to be inside the metro, with that ass, with that dress, with that come hither walk because you walked inside this compartment, despite a compartment already compartmentalised for you, you clearly wanted this, didn't you.  Oh yes you did. Even if you didn't, your silence is a yes, your yes is a yes, your no is never a no and well now that you are ashamed, scared, fearful, gasping, that's what I get off on. And then I will get off on the next station. Will See you. In some other form. In some other station. 

Down, downwards, grasps me, pulls me, and now I cant feel the hand but a sharp object brushing against me, forty eyes staring at me, enjoying the show, all of them, seeing love being made in the metro. None of them wants this to stop. I want it to stop. It stops. When my destination arrives. Will I come back to you, metro? I have to. You will be the one carrying me home. 
I come out of the metro. Somebody came in the metro
I didn't sign up for this, metro. I loved you, but not what I had with you.

Sunday, December 18, 2016

To those who have left but will never leave.

I remember
flashes of moments
of laughter, of mirth
of the randomly walking
past the green lawns,
I remember
passing you by
I must have been busy on my
phone, like always.
You suddenly come in front
to scare me, get me out
of my obsession with the
screen,
Today you suddenly
arrive in tears,
flashes of those
moments.
I remember sitting
memorizing lines
for plays after plays
but today life has played
all of us, and it has
staged a game for all
of us. A sudden improv,
you were not supposed
to be so good at it,
A magician's trick
is a trick, not reality
Reality tricked us into
believing in magic.
All I have left is words
is images that only we can have
in our minds,
Life has not become great yet
to bring memories back alive
along-with the people in them
It would never,
we fail even if we succeed,
but we meet even as we part.
How unpredictably wondrous is time,
it is surprising for some, brilliant for some,
but today time in our minds often
chooses to standstill, to cherish you forever in
the permanent voids we have now,
and no power in nature would take that away from us.

Tuesday, November 8, 2016

The Whole of Yours

Something I wrote for a dear friend, something everyone needs to know when they venture out to give a part of themselves to someone else!

World is yours to be
Today, tomorrow, ever since
You came to be. You
Cry, sigh, your disappointments
Multiply. By-lines.
By-lines to many a prose
Many a poetry is written
Post you were smitten
But soon, realisations strike,
Expectations hike and you understand
That those By-lines were meant for
Poems, stories, revolutions
Histories made by you,
For you, Towards you and unto you
Not for someone who came to be,
With a promise of an eternity
But seemed to turn away
The minute you turned towards,
Seemed to be different
When you craved for similarity
Seemed to be someone
When you craved to be one and the same
Seemed to be not yours
When you craved to have an us.
See, I know it feels
Hollow and it is hard to swallow
And easy to wallow in miseries,
Cry over tv-shows, distract yourself
With those movies which talk of
Distant lands, distant people, distant worlds
There is nothing to lose
But those blues, they let loose and
You end up feeling the loss evermore. Furthermore,
Those thoughts that
Prick your heart, and you pick your brain,
Whom will I trust
Whom will I love           
Why should I trust, Why should I love
Anymore, if endings
Endings have to be
The end and not a beginning,
Or even an intermission, for more to come.
If something needs to end,
Why should it even start?
Why do I love, Why do I trust
Anyone anymore, someone filled and
Took away my coffers, I am broke, broken
My bricks are not of mortar but my house
Is made of mud; loving will be calling
An ocean to take me away.
But metaphors could be changed
Similes could be altered
Today’s mud could be tomorrow’s steel
And let this thought heal, and I make an appeal
That this is not the end, endings are not ends
But lessons for pages you turn
Everyday, you add to your chapters.
And no one else gets to write,
Write you
Your stories
Your limits
Your endings,
You can love again
Trust again, take your time
But next time, keep it in mind
When you love,
Trust someone, someone
Feels like the world to you again,
Remember, you only
give a part of yourself
As,
The whole of you
Is only yours to be.


Monday, September 19, 2016

In the City, I am.

I never thought I would say this but sometimes, or most of the time, I miss living in the city, in the middle of a bustling city with many untold stories and chaotic mysteries.

_______________________________________________

In the city, when I walk,
I would like to talk to people without having to
 think what they would think of me , my size,
my eyes, will they see through me and catch my lies.
But I would walk nevertheless, would talk nevertheless
as it is the city, here, I could have thousands of people
not caring, thousands of people who might as well
be the ones who change your life.
All that matters, is that they were there.

 In the city, when I walk, I would like to be at peace with myself
amongst chaos that descends, but I would want chaos around me
 to find the calm within me. In the city, when I cross the road,
I would want that skip of the heart beat when I almost came near
 a car, but I would also want to be saved, thank goodness,
I am here, alive, cross road, take a breath and in that moment,
 I would like to smile.

In the city when I see markets, people laughing, shouting
 bargaining, buying, selling, I would like to tune out a music out of their voices,
 sometimes it irritates, but sometimes it resonates the flood in your heart.
In the city, when I see, I would want to see the skyscrapers but also the sky,
 would want to see cars but also the lanes, kids in parks,
old men laughing at their old stories and department stores having a flea sale.
People trying to buy things first to make someone happy, that someone maybe themselves
but it would cause happiness nevertheless.
In the city, I want people to do things that they do everyday and I want to see
it and enjoy the uniqueness of the mundane.

In the city I would want to sit in the tram
the train, observe the many stories
I can etch in my heart, by sketching
them through what they tell me
they tell it through their eyes,
In the city, I have many stories dying
to be told. I would want to hear that
silent loudness.

 In the city, I would want to live amongst so many
striving to make a living, I would want to survive when everyone
has their strategies at place, I would want to think when thoughts
are enough to get you to pass time,
I would want to know when there's so much to grasp.
In the city, I thrive. In the city, I am.

Saturday, July 30, 2016

The Curse of The Screen, or Not? (Random musings on online interactions)


Mobile Phone, Business, Phone, Technology

It is very easy to forget, while interacting with a person over virtual media that well, it is a real person. It is not an individual problem, I feel, but I do not have any factual evidence to show it is got to do with some kind of science. But it definitely happens, and we all have faced this dehumanisation (not exactly, but that's the closest I could get to what I mean) when dealing with someone over virtual media.

This definitely happens over interactions which tend to be one-on-one rather than 'groups', because groups guarantee a difference of thoughts to come to one place in multiple forms, and thus I feel, the human is not lost in a group network. Of course, it is the same media but at the same time groups are driven either out of some common bond, or ideology. They aren't as susceptible to dehumanisation as much as individual interactions.

Mostly when chatting with either family, friends, or people whom you have recently encountered, and if the interaction is consistent, and is not coupled with actual, real life meeting (long distance friendships. relationships of any sort- business, amorous, friendly, familial), there does come a point where you forget that this person whom you are talking to actually has a life of their own, a face of their own, and you only see them as words, as a screen which flashes as a color on your mobile. This isn't consciously done. I feel this is the curse of the screen-where screen becomes more important than the person behind it.

It also becomes complicated when you get attached to the screen and forget the person. Sounds tad philosophical but it is as factual as I can get. You tend to judge people over their typing speed, what they type, when they type, why they type, how they type or well, whether they type at all. Last Seen, blue ticks are a part of this complication, rather the app works on this very psychology of humans: we want to know what the other person thinks of us, when do they think of us or the lack of thought itself.  Status, DPs become a site of statements, protests, backhanded compliments, indirect jibes, what have you.

In this whole hulabaloo, one forgets the joy of actually knowing a person, to know their complications, their complexities, their different colours and moods. Even if you try, you will always find someone is not going to try enough because everyone approaches the screen differently. That mobile set in your hand, for you might be the gateway to know a person but for some other people it is just a tool to make oneself known without the interest to know. It is a subjective phenomena, people are lucky enough to talk to people online who do understand the importance of the person in the person, and not their online persona. But we all do go back to screens, and it does provide some kind of solace. Maybe it is not a curse at all but a whole new level in humans, where they simultaenously can attach and detach, love and be indifferent, care and not care,exist and not live.

Friday, June 17, 2016

Strange Familiarity

Strange is
 the strangeness
 one feels
 with familiar
 estrangement.
Familiar is the stranger
 more than what or who was
  known to be known.
That closeness you
feel with the man on
the street, he smokes
you don't, but he smiles
at you when you and he
see the same thing at the
same time, and all you see
is the familiarity-
the oneness you feel
with the woman who
irons your clothes
and while she does it
she cries and tells her story
of how she makes clothes look
smooth; not her life, no.
The closeness you feel
with the woman who welcomes
you in a strange land
gives you a cup of tea
and tells you how she came to be
you feel close to her, she
who lives in a distant land
where you just happened to be.
The love you get from strangers
is what makes you fill the tumblers
settle them with each drop of love
you have got from people who just only
passed you by
but never left you.
When you ring each tumbler,
it is as sweet or sweeter than the glass
harmonica you heard in a street years ago
the man playing music for getting by
he smiled as he made the most minimal amount
but he lived more than he could make out
for a living.
He lived, we live, we will
survive our life
through lives we never meet
but we will meet in our dreams
in our milliseconds of sighing in a
stop of a train where
you halt, you feel the thud of life
you do not hear the various sighs
but you know there was someone
who felt the way you did,
you look at them, and all you
do is smile.
A newspaper might part their
face with yours
but soon distances part you
from what was yours
from what should be yours
what could be yours
what might have been yours.
All you could do,
is see that their distance
is what makes them yours
all everyone will have
is their familiarity,
but you only, only
you were lucky
to get their intimate farness
their close distance.


Monday, June 6, 2016

Telling

Tell me your
stories and we will
weave a tale together,
we need not have the time
to see into each others' eyes
maybe it isn't the time to
let our eyes see each other

Tell me your
longings,
your yearnings and
every second you feel
like taking the deepest sigh
possible,
we need not have the time
to take each others' breath away
maybe it isn't the time to catch
each others' breath.

Maybe today you
will have a lot to tell
my mornings start with
words typed out of your
hands,
but soon world has its ways
that those hands won't be
typing,
my eyes won't be reading.
But should that stop us from telling?

Telling cannot cease
it is like the tip of the iceberg
the stories are buried under the sea,
No matter when you stop telling,
whatever you are telling will remain,
so let's let it be.