In the Wilderness 4th June, 2014

Under the lazy January Sun,

The grass lush with winter dew,

Invited the melancholy straight

Out of my being, as I lay savoring

The delicate deliquescence around,

The tickle of the blades of grass,

And the sight of you,

Radiant under the illumination,

Half-asleep, half-distraught

At the lingering menace of 

A relentless grasshopper,

Who seemed to appreciate 

The kiss of your hair on its feet,

As much as I loved its caress,

On my cheeks, and face.

The festivals of light, the nights 

Of endless applause, made known

By the indefatigable illumination,

Conjured by incessant fireworks,

Released from the ground, 

And terminating in crescendo,

Inches above our selves,

And us in flight, of the relief

After years of strife, of love,

Of hallucinations that come

To mark youth and its many

Blind faiths, With the mild

Pungency of burning gunpowder

Igniting dreams that were to

Later need suppression, cruel.

**************************************************

It is dark now, has been aching

Eternally, this loneliness.

As I have been looking for you,

In this endless hollowness.

In this world, turned dark now,

Baby, I look for you,

In the wilderness.

There Are Places I (Shall) Remember... 4th February 2014

Making my way through a chilly February night, past the familiar sights of Ring Road, of Safdarjung Enclave, of Aruna Asaf Ali Marg, and JNU, when I entered my room in Vasant Kunj tonight, I was hit by a feeling of loss, stronger than I had been expecting. Everything lay exactly the way I had left them about a month and a half back. Within seconds, my life of half a year came back to me. The partly-unmade bed, the quilts and bed sheets lying lumped together- as if comforting and protecting each other from the cold- all my clothes strewn around the room, the dried up bathroom floor, the Queen poster above my bed, the green lights - given to me on Diwali by someone who had warmed November up by his presence - garlanding the television on the wall, the Vodafone Internet modem I used for Internet connectivity here, the multiple empty Hot Chocolate, Nescafe and Nutella containers that I never bothered to throw away, the jute bag bearing the World Health Organisation logo- given to me by an uncle when I arrived to stay here, in August- one that I had hung behind the front door and never got around to dislodging from there even once since then, the books on Advertising- a course that had brought me to Delhi, a blue scarf that I had managed to procure out of one of my closest friends at IIMC- my Karol Bagh auntie- that I would also wear in class with my pairs of jeans and shirts(with the Bangalore Uncle, Mr. Chaithanya commenting - "very surprisingly, you do manage to pull this weird ensemble off as well"), the empty Ballantine's bottle and glass reminiscent of one particularly wild night around Diwali - all of this lying around, just as I had, running late and rushing to catch a train to Calcutta, left them - brought back so many memories...

...Memories of my first time away from home, my first time staying alone, completely by myself, like an adult, with no one to take care of me, or to pester me. Unlike most people, who graduate from home to hostel, to finally living alone, my first tryst with independence was marked by the complete, stark "alone-ness"(and I do NOT mean loneliness) that this place offered to me. I slept when I pleased, I woke up as I wished(though, usually, in time for college), I went up to the terrace with some food when I so desired, made myself as many cups of coffee as would keep me happy(having learnt how to make coffee here itself), climbed over the gate when I got too late in coming back at night, kept wondering what the warning sign asking one to be wary of "Non Ionized Radiation" meant. I danced by myself to the music played at the parties at the farmhouse next door and ordered countless meals from Hawkers and AFC's kitchen, and watched countless episodes of Harvey Specter's squabbles with Louis Litt, and bonding with Mike...This room saw love materialize, saw several varieties of despair as I desperately tried to figure a person out, gradually understanding him and accepting him for what he is. This room was for when my best friends trooped in to surprise me on a day I had overslept and missed college, found the door open, and found me lying on my bed, half-naked, and woke me up to a torrent of laughter.

I can't help but recall, after the decision to not put up with family here in Delhi, and the subsequent four days of house hunting to disappointing results, when I first set my eyes on this room, it had been love at first sight. The decision had been made then and there, and I had moved in a couple of days later. Today, on my last night here, as I try to soak in as much of this ambience, of this room, as possible, I am reminded of one cardinal truth about life. People attach a lot of importance to staying in touch with each other. This, they believe, would help them stay in touch with their past. Yet, for all the clinging on to other people that we do, as we tread through life, we forget that our past was necessarily made up of, besides the people, the places and the times we lived in - how the flowers smelled that day, how strongly the sun shone, and how much dust flickered through the sunlight pouring in through the ventilators. And thus, though the people live on( at least for a while), the times we lived in die, and with them, so does our past - never to be brought back to life, exactly similarly, even with all the people involved.

It Is The Sky I Sing To

It’s the Sky I sing to, and the Sky I sing for.

You should know this. Today, I am no longer afraid of what people might have to say. If you had waited around for a while longer, you would have fought off your fears as well. Only today, I have a fear far more labyrinthine than the one I could have ever weaved when you were with me. A fear that hints at loneliness, at helplessness, at being stranded without a soul to relate with. You were clever in not having stayed back to face these fears. You were cruel to have left me to fight them all by myself.

I have never revealed your secret to your world. Neither to mine. You lured the only ones that knew of your truth over to your side. I had sensed you would try the same with me, and you did. Only, I resisted. Not because I didn’t want my colors to help paint your portrait, not because I didn’t want my soul coalesce into your absence, but because I have to answer to people. I have to live for other people.

You also owed answers to other people. You needed to finish painting the beauty of our world. If only you weren’t in such a hurry.

And now, in dark nights, when I sit alone munching at cookies, you have no right to come and disturb me, to massacre my mental sanctity and peace, the way you do. You have no right to use the estuaries of thought to seek entry into the ocean of my mind, at times when I’m least expecting you to. On Christmas nights, suffocated under thick layers of fog and loneliness, I expect you to call out my name. And every August, every drop of rainfall on my skin reminds me of your fingers teasing me, my face, my hands and limbs.

Today, I can’t sing into a stupid looking telephone, expecting your warm voice at the other end. I do not seek to sing Summer songs or midnight lullabies or Birthday couplets to you through the phone. Instead, it is the Sky I sing to, praying to it to ferry my melody over to you, wherever you are. And who would know it better than you, that it is the Sky I sing for.

In Another Morning

In another morning, (there) was a proud sunlight.
That marched into our room, with delight.
And there were incomplete dreams,
Misty, ethereal, reeking of the previous night.
There was poetry, Oh, bless the poetry,
Lyrics of reassurance, of a future bright,
There were naked limbs, and sudden smiles,
Love in the creases on the forehead, quiet.

In another morning, there was a tender touch,
And almost ecstatic was the associated joy.
There were white sheets, pristine, that gave us
Shelter, and provoked us to completely destroy,
The notions of society that surrounded us.
The white sheets had a glow that did enjoy,
Parity with the aura of ecstasy in our hearts.
So, contented was I with you, oh (my) boy.

The tales of another morning(s),
Have perished since,
Our fairytale, like all others,
Did (tragically) die.
All I can do is
Dwell in refrains,
Haunted by memories,
Of your goodbye.

Joaquin

Joey,

It has been eight years.

You haven’t returned to the Oak-tree house.
You haven’t returned to the serene existence by the purple fire cackling in the fireplace.
You haven’t returned to the greetings of the conifers.
You have got lost.

Remember the night my parents fought so ugly that I wanted to run away to the kingdom to the East, the land of ‘National Happiness’ ? As they clawed at each other, and their respective dignities, I had to seek refuge under your coaxing and the endless efforts to cheer me up. As the grim night grew darker, Maria’s drums and your arms around me had kept me going. The very next morning, we went off. You, me and Maria, hitch-hiking towards what we thought was the East.Joaquin, remember the psychedelia brewing amidst the diminutive tea-stalls dotting the Himalyan highways? There was the rain, the songs, the terrace farms, and the rain-water channels, the Indian truck drivers, and their garish Hindee music. There was your guitar. The numerous odes to the days in the future, the way you would set everything right, for me. We were young, we had hope. We had mattresses housing mites and ticks, and makeshift beds made out of hours of dedication, strings of ropes, and wooden planks. And, we had the love. Insect-infested, optimistic, poverty-ridden, Sikkimese love.

Instead of going East, we ended up going West to Katmando Town. Natives we weren’t, Joaquin. I never even knew where your home was. Somewhere in the States, you had mentioned passively. You had told me to believe, and I had believed. Oak-tree house had become home. There was marijuana, there was money, there were midnight-treks, and Mandarin-Nazis. There was music, a lot of it. And the inflow of dollars, Joaquin. It was all for me, you said. Indeed it was. I had my poetry, my silence, and all the dollars. Maria had her drums, and we both had your company.

Your motherland then went to war with Iraq. We didn’t need to worry, you said. The invites started coming in. The ‘Prevent Civilian Casualties in the War on Terror’ music groups, that wanted you to represent our part of the World. The land of the calm, the Himalayas, was to be represented by you, Joaquin. You told me, it was art. It was no more about the money. It was about being human, you said. I knew your life was all about being human, Joey. Your humanity had saved me. How could I not let your humanity prevent the chaos in the Middle East? Of course, I hardly knew the gist of all the words you told me about World Politics, but I knew you were right.I let you leave, Joaquin. Not knowing there would be no more serenading at three in the morning. Not knowing that there would be no more breakfast by the conifers, painting the chimneys with the shades of our imagination, feeding the mountain-dogs in the evenings. I let you leave, never to see you again. I let you leave, to lose you to a stray attack by your motherland on the suspected terror-havens. They meant to slay the worshippers of terror, they said. They ended up blowing the worshippers of Art, to smithereens. They blew my heart, our world apart, Joaquin. Your land took you away from me.

Joaquin,

It has been eight years.
It is the evening of the Katmando Night.
They shall celebrate you tonight.

Will you come to Katmando tonight?
Will you let me soothe my mind,
Touch your being with my weary sight?

Joaquin, come with me to Katmando town.
I shall revel one last time, in your voice’s sound.
Your hair jet black, the eyes almond-brown.
Joaquin, I want you in Katmando town.

My Art?

So, I see you, in the portrait that you have painted of yourself.
But oh my dear boy, don't you remember, you borrowed those colors from me?

You may ask, why, oh why, did I loan out my inimitable colors to you?
No, I don't have a reply, none whatsoever, save that, I love you...

In my dreams, several times, I have painted you, your face, your smile,
In hues unknown, in shades resplendent, all of it my creation.

That's not how it is, is it? For you have it fixed, have it all planned,
And when I see her smile, her hair, so secure, I fall, out of love,
Or try to...

Love, strange, love bizarre.
Love irrevocable.
For you.
And distress,
In my life.

You shall never be my
Art.

I shall be a star, staring down at a river below.
I shall be a scar, among the wrinkles that age on you, will bestow.

I shall be lurking , beneath your smiling eyes
I shall be planting, soft kisses on your hands, under dreamy October skies.

You shall never be my
Art.

Not my art.
But my love.
My life,
Forever.

Causing heartaches,
Bruising my fantasy-lores.

I have woven satin nights for you,
I have seduced the fallen angels for you...

For you,dear Luke.
I am your fool.