Hear me, Lord Lytton

I wake with a jolt and put out a hand to feel Payal close to me. Thank goodness, she’s safe, wrapped in her blanket, head perched on her pillow. She’s breathing well.
The screams of the ambulance slowly ebb away and I catch my breath. Thank goodness all is well. I turn on the light and I notice the book on the bedside table reading “For love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.” ~ Kahlil Gibran.

I pick it up and unintentionally flip open the page to something I had written two weeks after Shiv…

Hear me, Lord Lytton; it’s over. Our cruise together. I’ll have to continue alone. Half empty, half naked.
I’m at a complete loss as to what I should write. Perhaps I should talk about my emotions?
They are all muddled up.
Had Shiv been here, he would have directed my attention to my aim. He would have sat close watching me dissect emotions, needling through one thought after another; meanwhile the crumpled chit and the battered plastic of my pen would mate in an uninterrupted rhythm of passion. Oh the passion for that very touch that settled in our drifting bubble is someplace else, entombed in silence, lost in oblivion. Plus, Lord Lytton, they say I will never hold Shiv again.
Lord Lytton, I’m also rid of my long, dark hair. They talk of customs to reason it out with me. Shiv liked them loose, he caressed inarticulate whispers through them, pouring into me the lyric of love while I relished in the divineness of his arms. I am at a loss of words, Lord Lytton. Neither word nor brush will do justice in aptly depicting that thing in me that stirs me every now and then. Thing, the most convenient word for what’s inside of me. I have not a name for it.
Lord Lytton, they talk about the woman who is widowed within six months of her marriage. They say it’ll pass, they talk of re-partnering, they thank god for not bestowing the poor girl with a child from her dead…

I shut the diary; I cannot bear reading further. It pains me to think of him. Does it make sense if I say I feel sorry for him rather than for myself? At least I am the survivor, I didn’t have to experience a bike crash and die amidst doctors and sharp medical equipments in an ambulance away from my people. At least my body wasn’t shrouded in blood and gunny when delivered to my family.

The evening I brought Payal home, the joy in me pierced to be shared. Though I breathed widowhood, there was a new identity that carved itself into my soul. Widow I am, but I am also a mother.
I addressed his photograph with our three month old baby asleep in my arms.
“Shiv, I am not sure if they are right about dead people becoming stars and looking down upon the living. But today, I feel more connected with you. I wish you heard me narrate to you stories when I was Payal’s caretaker at the adoption agency. I also wish you sat with me throughout the adoption process. But I know you’re crying tears of joy and pride for the three of us from above. She will know you. She will call you her father and be immensely proud of the thirty years of your accomplishments. Our family is complete. Happiness is you by our side. Contentment is this metaphysical connection the three of us are sharing.”

Talk on, please?

“So how much have you written in the past year, Sia?”
“Not much, Ashar. Just the occasional blogging apart from daily journaling.”
“Uh-huh?”
I Smiled.

“What’re you thinking, Sia?”
“Nothing.”
“Something. Saying nothing would be a lie.”
Pregnant pause…

“Sia, May I know?”
“Yeah… Um… No!”
“Embarrassed of the thought?”
“Juvenile thought.”
“Well, if you think its juvenile, it’s okay to be embarrassed of it.”
“Okay?”
“But if you need help, there’s no shame in asking for it. I know the ego will stir while asking for help; you’ll feel silly and worry if you’re judged. And I know you know all this, but I think we all need the occasional affirmation that feeling doubtful about one’s thoughts is normal.”
“So does that mean you won’t judge if I share?”
“How can I promise you when I can’t control my own thoughts? But trust me on this; I don’t want to judge you. I want to hear you and help if I can. But this isn’t me speaking. These are the values my elders passed on to me that are showing me the light. And after hearing you, I may change my mind. How? That I cannot say, but all I can do for you is to promise you I’ll try and be as supportive as I can, that, if you want to share with me.”
Silence fell.
“Should I be proud of myself that I’m being honest to goodness with you? I feel funny. But you know what, Sia? I despise counselors who promise to never divulge nor judge. They’re humans first, counselors later. And I’m sure they talk of their clients to their spouses, friends and colleagues… They spout out details and save the identity and are eternally proud of themselves. What a noble profession!”
I nodded. My throat knotted.
“Ashar, are you free for the day?”
“I don’t have plans for the day. What can I do for you?”
“Sit with me? Uh… that look makes me nervous.”
“I’ll sit with you but what’re we doing?”
“Sitting… and I could make you noodles and there’s some orange juice.”
“Wow. I’m up for food.”
“Uncertain.”
“What’s uncertain, Sia?”
“Future.”
“Spot on! You seem inspired by me already, my love.”
“Ha-ha. You sit here while I go and make noodles for us?”
“I’ll come with you. As much as I like for people to cook for me and serve me in bed, what will I do all alone in your room? Besides, your roommate might just walk in to find a male stranger on her roommate’s bed. That’d be weird.”
“You’re a self-help guide!”
“Nay. I’m big hearted with words, you see? I give more than I can take. To be precise, I talk to good listeners. I’m a pathetic debater and if someone who is as much or more talkative than me sits with me, I shut up like a chicken!”
“Talk on, please?”

What a cheesy disappointment

“A KG of parmesan costs fifteen hundred Indian rupees, ma’am” he says. Of course, he is warm; he attends to me like he does with every other customer. The professional niceties are so cold yet so warm. I look him in the face, and I try appearing as sharp as the cheese.
“Well I never! The last time I checked, it cost twelve hundred bucks.” I tell him.
He tries arguing with me and I leave him narrating the familiar porky pie of the price rise to himself. I hear that from the vegetable vender, the fruit vender, the food joint staff, and I need an increase in my own pay as well. Why am I blaming him?
I promptly decide to make cheese at home; the basic Asian cottage cheese if not the Italian Parmesan.
I buy milk on my way home, just a couple of liters to begin with. Yes, this should do. I quicken my pace, god how do I contain my excitement?

*

Okay, let’s begin. I leave it next to the oven overnight for it to ferment.
“Hoping and praying for you, my little baby” I whisper over the opening of the dish. Yes. A baby it is. I’ll give it all the care it asks for.
I run into my room, back to my regular perusing of the interwebs, hastily looking up web address after web address, dissecting recipe after recipe. It’s too cold outside and the interiors of my little apartment are also beginning to chill.
I cannot… su-su-ppress… ya… ya…. Yawwwwwwwwwwwwn… gosh the huge yawn!
I am exhausted. What a long Sunday of chores! I put on my cozy bed hour jumper, dim the lights, and lay in my comforter with my singing earplugs on “I lost my train of thought, when you called me ‘my sweet cheesecake’”.

*

Do I really have to get out of bed? Mondays are always jinxed. Happiness lies in retrospect. Hmm. I shut my eyes again. I hear a streak of music so close. Darn it I fell asleep leaving my IPod playing “I lost my train of thought, when you called me ‘my sweet cheesecake’”!
I kick out of bed, the cold moves me but the cheese matters more! I run into the kitchen.
I scream. Not a dainty one. The cold has the audacity to freeze a human like me, and the milk sits there with ever resolving strength in its liquid state! Then it hit me, I completely forgot to add the vinegar. And I had to put it in the oven, not by the oven.
I feel the morning hunger envelope my tummy. I pick the bowl containing the milk and bottle it.
I slowly lift the mouth of the bottle to my lips and whisper “cheese”.
Too much milk for breakfast!

The last consequence that flew right out Of the Pandora’s Box

What a day it is
Heavy on the shoulders
Tasteless on the tongue
Running off the eyes
Complaining in the throat
And settling within.

What a day it is
While being pulled down with imaginary weight,
Every ounce of the self ensconces on to the gravity
Realizing that they understood English
When they christened this emotion “Depression”.

What a day it is,
Some people speak with a tinge of despise
Some remain muted with the despisedness guarded
Not willing to communicate
Leaving certain confessions to remain uncoerced.

What a day it is
When one is unsure of everything,
What to say or what to eat
What to think or what to believe,
What to do or how to do,
When there are units of labours,
Chores that cannot be ignored.

What a day it is,
When fingers type away at a pace,
Without making an attempt to create something,
Trying to garner the thought overflow
Into insufficient words
That the nomenclature tenders.

What a day it is
With Every inch giving up
With having all strength departed
With all inspiration lost in the ether
With the sixth sense soliciting a sweet escape.

Maybe in the end,
It will all conclude,
There still is a tiny spark,
Somewhere within,
Like the last consequence
That flew right out Of the Pandora’s Box
In to the crowd of the squirming and writhing
To offer a modicum of solace.
Oh what a day it is.

Because tutorials by amateurs are great!

So here we go, on how to keep calm and carry on, yo!

Let it be your way.
Let it be about messy makeup and lucky charms,
lady luck and confident smiles,
metro city nightlights
and hilltop breezes.
Write down scattered thoughts, colour coordinate your pyjamas.
Tie up your hair in a messy bun.
Reread what you’ve written, recollect those happier times.
Laugh.
Laugh till your stomach hurts; empty yourself of all the air you’ve got. It’s worth it this time.
Drawback the curtains. Let the light stream in. or the cool breeze blow in.
Keep bowls of fruit, tinged in salt and pepper. Or in fancy paprika or Kashmiri mirch.
Maybe a can of chilled beer on a Saturday night? Why of course!
Green tea or lemon ice tea other times? Yes please.
Wanderlust.
Hope.
Dream.
Wish.
Let the negativity be – fears, scars, imperfections, jaded memories, cheaters, criminals, eve teasers, robbers, and all kinds of evil people who make you feel reduced with it.
Because all of this ain’t going nowhere.
But try calling the positivity in.
Lust for thrill, adventure, travel, rebellion. And of course, cute boys.
Passionate? Remain.
Fashionable? Be.
Forward? Move.
Late nights out? Go. With the trusted.
Independence? Feel.
Beauty? Bask in it.
God? Trust in. Always.

Must you struggle too hard to make the confident, independent person out of yourself?
I think not.

Dip dip, my blue ship

"Befriend those who are a part of your league, not those who are not. You can’t just become friends with someone for some comic relief!" with that she hung the call. She was done, with another long-term sale in a ship called the friendship. Or worship?
Because she was friends, or she thought she was friends with someone who clearly communicated to her in the right syntax, “I’m really easy to get along with once you begin to worship me”.
She giggled. And she giggled alone. Clearly she did not get the syntax.

It began ruff, the friendship, rising and falling, with the tides of life. But thanks to the laughs and a few good deeds and pizzas and beer, they tagged along, sailing together. The ship had more to it than what met the eye, it of course had other people, pizzas, a few good laughs, but it also had emotions, wrong deeds, wagging tongues and middle fingers, backstabbing and more! "You know what else did not meet the eye?" she asked herself. No one spoke. No one was listening. She spoke anyway.
"the ship itself." She paused to hold back a sob. She clumsily picked a hand and wiped off the tear that rolled down her left cheek. But she knew she shouldn't stop talking. What if no one was around to listen? She always had the choice of talking to the walls, someone might just hear. Or appreciate. Or adopt her philosophy.
It was difficult to speak with her throat knotting. There was the risk of not sounding her lively self. There was also the risk of not sounding like the pretty protagonist of that movie that made it to the top of the charts. But it did not matter.
"because it existed, in beating hearts, in rising beer mugs, in shared pizzas, in STD phone calls. Sometimes it lasts; sometimes it loses itself under the gigantic wave of hopelessness, hatred, disparity and jealousy. And sometimes, leagues. The superiority complex loomed over my part of the ship like a huge, dark cloud. Very dark. And as it kept getting darker, the silver lining also went into hiding!"
This time she couldn't hold the sob in. tears and weeping followed. Well, at least she isn't a robot. She has emotions. And after a while, she picked a notebook with her picture on the cover. She looked at herself, examining every feature, clothes and that deep dimple on her cheek. She looked up, into the mirror. No, the girl looking back at her didn't quite look like the girl in the picture.
"I’m not used to seeing you like this" she addressed the mirror.
"you, I only get to see you in the mirror when I’m dressed well." She spoke to the picture.
She touched her cheek where the tear had rolled. Her skin felt slightly wrinkled and dry. There was no depression.
"the depression moved downward, it settled in my heart." She mumbled. “
“Look I’m pointing to my cleavage” she chuckled.
She turned to an empty page and picked a neon orange sketch from her drawer.
She doodled an orange. Clearly, what else could be more apt? An orange with an orange pen.
Then she circled a pair of eyes, triangled a nose, curved lips, oveled cheeks. And then she knew what was missing.
Her spirits needed lifting up. The depression had to move back up to her cheek, its original home. She pressed her nib down to make the deepest depression, almost tearing into pages.
Her little doodle was ready; it only needed something to say.
She put her neon orange pen back and picked her favorite black pen that looks like the key to a Mercedes. She used it for special occasions, and the ink was almost draining out.
She picked a spot under the bottom lip and wrote
"it's just one of those days when old happy thoughts remind you that happier times are gone. Ug these thoughts behave like... like proud, old aunties who are proud of their rich children who are settled in the first world cities with cleaner beaches, and they own fishing boats. I’ll find more ships, for fishing and more!"
She turned back to her picture and smiled. There was no compulsion to smile; it burst forth from the soul. Yes, she looked like the girl who she is used to seeing in the mirror.
“Huh! The eternal sucker of an optimist in me is just that – a sucker! This too shall pass, but it still hurts. Very very much.”

She curled up, trying hard to feel like a fat cat in her basket. She tried imagining that her only current problem is a hungry stomach, because the milk was fermenting. In reality, she hated yogurt.

OM KRISHNA VASUDEVAYA NAMAHA – a guest post

...Here’s a story of a lovely lady.

My sweetheart Pragya is a Krishna Bakta by heart, UPite by living, feminist by belief, Helpful by nature and authentic by soul. The sweet and humble girl who seeks for opportunities to be of slightest help to people, wrote a poem on Lord Krishna and dedicated it to my blog. So, this post is her space today. Also, i’m attaching the link to her blog, check out the place where she chills in her little land.

So the poem is called “Waiting for you”

Bahut din ho gaye tum par kuchh likhe hue..

....tum par naa likhu toh lagta h kuchh adhoora sa h...
..jo likh doon tum pe toh lagta h sab poora sa h...

...muskura jaati hoon sochti hoon jab aaj toh tum par likhna h..
...kya likh rahi hoon fark nahi padta...
..TUM par likh rahi hoon..
...kaafii h..

...tum kya ho mere liye kabhii milo toh bta sakoon...
...mann toh tumhara bhi karta hoga mere saamne aane ka..
...kya rok deta h fir..
..kabhi milo toh poochhun...

.. samhaalna itnaa ishq us patthar ki murat k bass ki baat toh nahii..
...matlab samaata tohh woh TUM MEIN hii jaake h..
...kitnaa khush ho jaati hoon bass ye soch k hi...
....kabhi milo toh bataau...

...jab kabhi apna haath yun hi badha deti hoon Hawa mein..
...ki kya ptaa thaam lo tum..
...mann toh tumhara bhi machalta hoga ki bass aaj toh bann jaau woh jo chahti hoon main..
...jo milo kabhi toh jaanu..

...main toh bass imagine kartii hoon..
..ki jab muskate ho tum toh hawaaon mein jaadu baraste hain...
...mann toh tumhara bhi karta hoga ki kabhi milo yun mujhse aur khil khilaa k bass hass pado..
...taaki main apni line modify kar sakoonn..
..aur kahoon...
...ki jab hasstaa h woh toh har zarre mein JANNAT dikhti h...

.. jo tumhe sochti hoon main din raat...
.mil gaye jo tum kabhi kahin kisi baat..
..toh kya hi ho..
...sochti hoon..
...jo milo kabhi tohh janu...
...mann toh tumhara bhi karta hoga mujhse milne kaa...
..mera haal kya hoga tab ye dekhne ka..
...jo mili kabhi toh jaanu...
...khud ko bhi aur tumko bhi....
..jo milo kabhi tohh jaanu!

Jo le aati hoon tumhe apni aankho k itne paass..
..mann toh tumhara bhi karta hoga meri palkon se khelne ka..
...meri alkon se khelne kaa..
...kabhi aao toh jaanu...

Kya kah doon main tumse krishna jo aa jaao tum..
...kya likh doon main tumhare liye jo mil jaao tum...
...kya kar doon main aisa jo mil jaau main tum mein hi..
...mann toh tumhara bhi karta hoga mere in sawaalo ke jawaab dene kaa...
..aur suljhane ka in uljhe ishq k reshon ko..
...aur kholne ka in kachchi pakki si gaantho ko...
....jo milo kabhi toh jaanu!!

..Waiting for you...

tumhari 'Ishq'

isn’t thab one beautiful poem?

May Lord Krishna keep you always happy and prosperous. Blessed be.