Lovers’ Quarrel

lovers quarrel

 

The impossible arrangement,
Love in an unimaginable disguise.
The fallacy of distances,
Expanses,
echoing a silent lovers’ cry.

A harbor’s longing,
For once the waves (to) subside.
An ocean of endless emptiness on top,
Bustling
with creatures of emotions inside.

Incandescent desires,
There’s no way out.
Every second, they wait for a dawn,
But only twilight
reverberates deep in to the horizon.

Their only respite,
Lovers’ quarrel.
Their raw animal feelings,
A manifestation of suppressed love
In their personal dystopia.

 

 

Time

time

 

We should have listened,
When the brain yelled a resounding no.
But at stake here was the heart,
And we just carried on and on.

 

It was beautiful, it was glorious,
The time we spent together and the rest in waiting.
There were nights when you just couldn’t sleep alone,
And you would know I’d be there waiting
For my girl to come home.

 

There were no promises, but a hope at heart,
This needs to last forever, what is here cannot be stopped.
Even with that knowledge, the brain tried to take precautionary steps,
A few goodbyes from you and me that landed back on our heads.
What were we thinking, if at all were we?
A life without the other and see what it comes to be?

 

You suffered, and so did I,
This constant yearning and no one to pass a word of comfort by.
Well you know you’re truly screwed
When you feel alone even when surrounded
by like minded fools.

 

But as every tide, the sadness passed,
The sunshine returned, and magical spells were cast.
You had your smile back, but I couldn’t pass one in return,
For the hand you held in the picture wasn’t this one.

Hope for the despondent

hope

 

A tragedy is worse, if you can’t mourn,
Day in, day out, night comes through the back door.
You squirm in your bed, let a few tosses down the side,
A lonely house, a big bed, and a struggle to survive.

 

An unfulfilled mind, a poison’s chalice,
The voice inside your head is unkind.
You laugh it out when someone sees you,
Knowing you can’t afford being looked in the eye.

 

All these jumps, you had your quota,
Maybe it’s time to take it slow.
Be gentle, a little kinder,
Maybe take a walk again under the first snow.

 

You’ll be careful, rethink every move,
You know now wounds take longer to heal.
Else a quick blast to the forehead, a needle with little extra,
And there would be no pain lingering in your spine to test.

 

It won’t matter to you, but to everyone else,
And that’s something you can’t have on your soul.
What can you do, when you can only wait?
Cross your heart, wince and shudder,
And hope,
For the very best.

Nonsensical senses

writinglol.jpg

Oh this is not a love story, not a heartbreak. If you have come here for that, please turn away- there’s nothing other than disappointment for you here. There’s enough material for your melancholy night on this blog- just look at the last two posts and you will have your hearts fill! However, this little post is something of a self-roast brought to you by a premier wine that the author had to drink alone.

What’s better than being bald, unattractive, single and 30 years old? Nothing much, I tell ya! You wake up with no expectations, nothing to look forward to- you can live life as you have always wanted – in the fucking moment. Those moments, that in the past have done absolute wonders for your mental and physical health, uplifted you from being a somber sober chocolate boy to the doped motherfucker others warn their sisters from, “Ye dekho, saala charsi”. Nasha kar ke to dekho bhenchodon, it’s not poison.

See, if you are anywhere like me, anywhere in this predicament, you can always take solace in the fact that you will be the saving grace for someone. Someone is going to be desperate enough in the coming few years to like you enough to make the call- and let’s face it, you don’t have the balls to do that. Like fucking ever. Some beautiful damsel down the line will be falling off from a cliff- a failed marriage, a failed relationship- and you will be the olive (lmao!) branch that she hangs on from! You just need to do one thing- be a stable source- emotionally, financially- like whatever. I mean, ek cheez to karni padegi na yaar life mein. You were not born with a silver spoon, you have had to take care of your own shit. You tried to do that, you failed. You missed the first train, but you sure as fuck are going to be ready for the blowback.

When I was a kid, I saw this movie with the Indian actor Nana Patekar when he exclaimed, famously, “ek macchar aadmi ko hinchda bana deta hai”- one mosquito can render a man transvestite. Bandiyaan bhi yahi karti hain bhai. You weren’t born a Brad Pitt or a Hritik Roshan, you need to calculate every step that you put forward. You looked into an eye and thought that, that is it. Life is fucking lit. Aankhon aankon mein kya dekha chaar baar, ho gaya pyaar X hazaar. And you know that you are going to fall for those eyes like you have always done- with every single girl that has made a mistake of looking into yours- even if it were eyes of concern- “is everything right with this guy he looking at me like dis”. But you are a romeo bought up by empty promises of a SRK or a Tom Cruise.

Am I making any sense here? If you are having an existential crisis- fuck it- knowing you, you’ve probably seen worse. If you are having a tough time with a loved one- know that she might probably leave you and let’s face it- you are not the most prized possession that this world has every bestowed on someone. As Tyler Durden puts it, “You are not special. You’re not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You’re the same decaying organic matter as everything else. We’re all part of the same compost heap. We’re all singing, all dancing crap of the world.”

You are all alone, And nothing is more beautiful than that. You have survived the worst that life has thrown out at you, and you came on top. You are here, you are alive, and you are successful.

You, my friend, have already won. Any doubt- look at the picture accompanying this post again!

Denial

denial4

 

If I say it aloud,
Will it serve as cathartic?
If I let it flow into words,
Will that help me heal?
Will it stop me from visiting you in my dreams?
Make it pause for a little while, help me breathe?

 

“It will be if it is supposed to be”, I know you said it,
And I waited in my purgatory hoping you’ll see this.
No one else can ever put all your details in a simple order!
The taste of your wine and the munchies that goes with it,
The food that you like and the exact spice levels in it.
The type of kiss that you enjoy and that little spot behind your ear,
The smell of your body and the perfume that you would not wear.
The kind of coffee table you’d have and what you like in the morning,
Or when you’ve had a long day and the kind of sleep for which you’ve been longing.
Can anyone else whisper the words in your ears what exactly is it that do you want?
Have you close your eyes and make you feel how you wanted to, all along.
Tell me these and I’ll accede to our separation,
Else the feeling of denial might never leave its gestation.

 

You tried to move away and I was jealous,
And there may have been small little parts when I’ve acted nothing but callous.
I don’t have a drive and what carries me around is the passion,
A burning desire to not let things escape and all I have now is that too familiar desperation.
I know we laughed about out not forgetting our love and all that jazz,
But tell me if you believed it were  remotely possible that this won’t leave me mad?
I cannot let you go I cannot let you leave,
The door is always open and the window is up by a creek.
Your home is waiting for you, the bed unmoved, not a cobweb has crept,
The place and my existence denying you ever left.

 

 

Inner Demons

shine-on

As he lay on the floor with yet another neat little soldier of death burning slowly between his fingers, he wondered if he could have done it all a little different. The whiskey clad breath emancipating from his nostrils heaved another sigh, and the man in the mirror on the other side of the room hung his head in shame. Such promise, such talent. All going down the drain. He used to be a poet, had in grasp a semi-decent hand at the guitar, a mind that could have gone places if not haunted by its own demons. A life that could have moved in a direction so different, a love that he had in his grasp albeit for a fleeting second.

He had never been a hard-worker, and, you know, that was just fine. His passions used to pump him up, and when he took upon a project, the only thing he could see in the complete spectrum was what he wanted to do, and he stayed on with it till he ran it to completion. If you go read his earlier pieces, you’d know what is being talking about here! His only driving force was the fire that was within, be it writing a new story or coming up with lyrics for a new song, perfecting that one kick when he played football, winning someone over. And people around him saw it, the light that radiated from within, the smile that sometime lay plastered on his face. And it made them happy, to be with him, to be around. As he tried to push his sorry ass off the floor, all he could think of was that fire, and whatever transpired that extinguished what remained of it, leaving him hollow. Was it because of it that they all left? Or did the fire die when they did?

He had always been haunted by voices inside his head. He had pushed them deep into a vortex where they could not touch him anymore, but that, that was before. That was when he could distract himself with everything going around, but being alone, they slowly broke away. And he could not help but listen to them. They were coming from his head, they were real! And they took him to her. Talked about her, dug up a beautiful memory and place it in front of his eyes and make him fall far far away to a world that was nothing but her. It revolved around her smile, and the walls were painted with their love. Far across, there was her, and in between, the memories they made together. To go to her, he would carefully swim into each of them, and just as he thought he’d made it, just as he dared to touch her, the walls crumbled down and he woke up in a jolt of reality.

As he looked across of what remained of the man in the mirror, he wondered for how long could he keep trusting the voice inside? For how long could he hide himself in the pretext of the life that passed him by? Hang his head in shame after whenever the voice asked him to put his hands inside his pants and give a little yank in the middle of the night, or have another glass of spirits when he knows that the night has been done before a long long time. Then another, and another. And again, he was back, wanting to touch her, feel her, caress her. Indulge in sloppy kisses, place a hand on inside of her thighs as he prepared to go inside. “No wait, wait, NO! stop! STOP!”, he screamed at his head to not go there for once as tears streamed out of his eyes again.

Will it ever stop? Will he ever be home when he is alone? Will he ever find his peace or it’ll be yet another sad case of a bright light gone ashtray? If at all, for him, will it ever cease to hurt? Will the demons go away? Will the fire come back? Can he smile again?

Shine on, you crazy diamond.

Fine Margins

“Damn! This is painful.”, he thought as he tried to keep her thoughts at bay that moment. It was a constant struggle, every waking hour of every single day. Especially when it was so easy to immerse his self in the sea of memories they’d made together- their first kiss, their second kiss, holding her close, making love. Each of them brilliant, each so much fun! Them sneaking off to steal a kiss when their friends were in the other room, her holding him close when she knew no one was looking, them both waiting for the other to ask for an evening of wine, her tantalizing glances that drove him mad! Mesmerizing, pure moments. They put him in their spell each time he thought of them, and he could smile. On what there was. On what could have been.

As someone who believed in science more than on himself, he knew that dwelling in could haves is as stupid as it could get. But the writer in him compelled him to look that way, pick up the pieces from before when they left off to create his own worlds. There, each of his could haves had its own space. Each narrative different storyline. A new world, where the outside didn’t matter, he would fill them in with colors, detail it with the things they used to love. It would be their world, custom to their likings, their demands, their dreams. He would off to play football each evening, and not be injured. She would dance her way into the world, and no one could have anything to say. And they’d be together every night. Oh, and there would be stars. Twinkling, playfully announcing that they are real. As real as the two of them.

Playing with memories wasn’t bad, what hurt was snapping out of them. Looking at everyone go around hand in hand, knowing that they were meant to do that. Knowing that somewhere, she might be thinking the same thing. Knowing that somewhere, she might be with someone, thinking of him. Him not realizing when their expiration date came.

He’d kept his indulgences at bay for sometime now- they flooded in the memories. Indulgences solidified them and placed them in front of his eyes. Then he couldn’t help reaching out to the phone and message her, call her- ask her if she missed him as the same way he did- something he always regretted the next morning. But today, as he was finishing up the almost empty bottle of scotch, he felt so much more in control. “Brilliant! I’ll probably go and get another half, the night is still young. Hell, I feel fine, I can switch on my phone again, will not call her!”. Maybe he felt like giving himself a treat for being sober for so long. For not giving into his memories. For standing up.

He wasn’t even finished with racing his car to the fourth gear when the phone rang. He looked down to see who could it have been when a screeching horn brought him back to the world.

“Fuck!”

A Book of Life

waves

 

His wasn’t just a passing monologue, it were a repertoire of rudimentary memoirs. Of the millions cached in the huge sachet of what he called his little treasures, some lit up unlike any others. He had always thought of himself a painter of battles, a silent vigilante, a rock on the shore- only to be hit at, taking it all. There, looking at the waves, distant but ever involved, on the endless canvas of imagination, he painted his photographs.

And when a wave strong enough came crashing down, he safely stored what he had painted in the little book called life. While most were no more than scribbled notes in the margin, every once a while, he found some good enough to form paragraphs. Very, very rarely, he were lucky enough to do paint a masterpiece, and they would form his chapters. Oh, it was heartbreaking when his chapters ended! And once, only once he met someone, someone so integral, so special- he put her name in the title.

Ever met someone who even the air smells of even when they aren’t there? You close your eyes, and you can breathe the scent of their neck, the touch of their lips, the warmth of their fingers, the taste of their tongue! You look forward to the mornings just because you can wake up next to them, the nights so that you can sleep with! The time in between tends to be wonderful just because they are around. You find yourself catching a lazy grin and you don’t know why! And you think you would do anything to let that feeling last forever. They knew it might not end well, they knew the days ahead might be black, but together they would make it the best shade of darkness they’d ever seen. They would laugh and cry, and smile at inappropriate times; walk in the snow- hand in hand, and grow old together, listening to the idiosyncrasies of the other. And once a while, she would ask him what she meant to him. He always showed her the book, and she would know.

Years later, she found herself again at the shore. Time had torn them apart but she always knew where find what remained of him. He was long gone, but she found his book. A tear escaped her eyes and she spoke to no one in particular, “why aren’t there any new entries, you promised, you promised you wouldn’t stop.”

He never did, till the day he died. The pen never left his hand, (with her gone) just the ink went dry.

 

 

 

Heat

night

 

 

Why aren’t you here tonight?
I could touch you,
Kiss you, feel you.
Hear your soft sigh as I run my fingers down your skin,
Feel you quiver as my lips run against the contours of your neck.
Let a hand free so you could guide it wherever you chose,
And hold you tight,
So tight, when it hit the right spot.

What wouldn’t I give to have you here by my side,
Pull you close,
Breathe your skin,
And the secrets that the night lets fly.

 

 

 

 

Bade ho rahe ho aap

 

bade ho rahe ho aap

Chalo bete, bahar jaao,
Shaam ho rahi hai,
Thoda ghoom ke aao.
Dost intezaar kar rahe honge aapke,
Abhi umar hai,
Khelo, koodo, muskaraao,
Beta, bachhe ho abhi aap.

..

..
Arre, abhi tak bahar?
Waqt ka andaaza naa laga,
Yaa dimaag shaitaan ko de aayin aap?
Padhai karni hai,
Hazaaron cheezein hain zamaane mein,
Kab samjhoge,
Beta, bade ho rahe ho aap.

..

..
Haan, pata hai humein,
Wo aapke bachpan ka dost hai,
Magar hamaari izzat ka bhi kucch karo lihaaz.
Mahaulle waale kya sochenge?
Ek hi to beti hai hamaari,
Naam kharaab hua to jaayenge kahan?
Sharma ji ki dekho beti,
Government school mein padhke laayi hai 85%,
Private school mein padhke kya yahi seekha aapne?
Kab samjhoge?
Bete bade ho rahe ho aap.

..

..
Haan, maana aap bade doctor ho,
Bade sheher mein rehte ho,
Lambi gaadi hai aapki!
Magar humaari zindagi to yahin hai.
Biraadari kya sochegi?
Nahin beta, maana wo bhi doctor hai,
But apni jaat ka to hai nahin.
Hamaare khaandaan mein kisi nein aisa nahin kiya,
Komal chaachi ki betiyon ko dekho,
Kaise dhoom dhaam se vidaayi ki thi.
Sirf apne baare mein mat socho gudiya,
Beta maan jaao,
Beta,
Beta bade ho gaye ho aap.