Summers were love

That overpowering sense of having lost something you had forgotten you once loved, taking you afar, into the whirl of days when the green of the grass was the only green you knew, the wisps of fresh air breathed life into your knotted hair and the golden sky promised it would never leave your side.

Small places where everyone knew just about everyone, where the beggars on the street always looked familiar, the vegetable seller worried if you didn’t show up one day, the old lady smiled at the kids who stole mangoes from her trees and where the nights quietly washed away the hot evenings.

I remember walking down those small criss-cross streets, my father two steps ahead, for his work wouldn’t allow him to keep up with my slow, stumbling pace. The Marutis lined the streets, but the people on foot always seemed to outnumber them.

Summers meant sipping on lemonade and slurping on ice cubes. And playing in the afternoon sun when the entire house would be sleeping, because the thrill of breaking some rules and proudly acquiring cool, sometimes sun-burnt, tanned limbs, was a temptation you couldn’t resist. With hair that didn’t give a damn, some bright yellow clothes that always seemed to fit a tad too loose, arms flailing about and legs turned a dusty brown, each broken window of the house just stood there, a remnant of your affair with summer, each summer.

And everyday, the city splashed an array of pictures that left you in awe, hues and patterns borne out by a kaleidoscope, a pretty little kaleidoscope, which has now turned old and jittery but keeps churning out marvels all the same.

Of course, until the day it gives way and breaks into tiny but empty versions of itself.

The World When You're Fat

In all my years of picky eating and carrying around an underweight, under-nourished body, I never knew I could be mocked for being fat. You never know until it happens to you, they say. Yeah, you never know how the other half of the population feels until you balloon up like Aunt Marge (Leave the blog now if you didn’t get the reference. Just kidding. Please stay, lone reader).

Whenever ‘fit’ (or just plain mean) people come across another human being with fat spilling all over his/her body frame, we wrinkle our noses in disgust and point out with our (oft unappreciated )wisdom that the person would be better off with some exercise and needs to get a grip on his/ her life.  The worse ones among us go on to crack rude jokes about the ‘sad excuse for a human being’ in front of us.  I used to do the same.

But what these two years of ‘not looking good according to society’s standards for twenty something girls’, have taught me is, the many forms of unhealthy  your body can take from different illnesses, some of which you can’t even set right, no matter how hard you try.  Conditions like thyroid do not always have a ‘follow this path and you’d own a Beyoncé body’ solution.  People vacillate between hypo and hyper thyroid, medication alone doesn’t offer solutions and they feel trapped in their bodies when their metabolism gets pushed off normal limits. Some people find it painfully hard to shed just a few pounds even if they are eating healthy and following all the right books. Then there are some who are driven to depression (only if they aren’t already neck deep in it).

There have been days when I went to work, layered up in winter sweaters and jackets when every girl around me would be wearing thin, sexy, sleeveless clothing to beat the heat, when my skin would keep peeling off for more than a month (Last month, it bled for days from the dryness), I would wake up with puffy eyes(not from crying) and pain in all my bones, feel drowsy and energy deprived even after marathon sleeping, problems concentrating, a few episodes of forgetfulness, low blood pressure, water retention, severe bloating, IBS, just to mention a few(I swear). And i would cry at the slightest problems, still convincing myself that it was so only because I was depressed. To top it all off, my test results would only term it as ‘sub-clinical hypothyroid’. So, no, I didn’t even get the good stuff to help deal with the symptoms.

But I did get a lot of comments on my football appearance (even when I had gained 6-7 kgs and was still in the healthy range, as pointed out by doctors who grew sick of my anxiety). At my college convocation, not more than a couple of people talked about my job or future plans or congratulated me on finally moving to a brighter career.  But they did talk about how I looked. And it made me feel awful, for I had already spent months crying over ‘myself’ and it wasn’t that I didn’t try to change. I did try eating healthy, took to some exercising but my circumstances and conditions, both physical and mental never let me continue for long.  Now back home, taking a break, with moderate to light exercise and a healthy balanced diet, I’ve started feeling like my old self in just a few weeks. But not everyone has that luck. Many people suffer a lot of heartbreak because they just cannot put a rest to their deteriorating condition. The emotional stress attached to being fat picks at them like tiny needles, day in and day out. And some needles can be as bad as daggers. 

Many of you (And here I assume that some people still read the shit I put up) might take this for a rant. Maybe some part of it is exactly that. But I do have one request, please be a little less judgmental, a little less harsh and cruel with your words when it comes to talking to, or about, fat people. You’re not in our fat shoes, and you have never really known what it’s like.
We might come across as sheer lazy, but you, yes you, could be more humane.

P.S. Love to the few amazing friends who loved me through thick and thin.
Wow. I’m really sorry for the awful puns. 

Another night

“The world is on fire…no one can save me, but you.”

Amorous glances, doing nothing to quell fires, voices left untended, forsaken, deprived of solace.

A tilt to the right and the perfect angles of her face are mirrored in his eyes.  And as she drinks, he traces the thin edge of the glass, as it softly brushes her cool lips, and all this while, her fingers adorning the glass.

Long feminine fingers and those perfectly sculpted wrists, graced by her flawless, soft skin.

Desires unsafely bottled up, the key tossed away, prior to the locking of gates.


----

She couldn't understand the show they put up, year after year, to dress up in costly blacks, chained by the rubies and pearls, talking of how good their recent romp in  bed was, while the same man was now making up for lost time, some other city, and some other set of pearls. 
“Animals”, she hissed, under her breath.  And she had never liked pearls, even tonight, little sapphires caressed her neck.

Concealed eyes, humongous falsehoods, the world chalked out in half lies and quarter truths.

But then she saw him.


-----

Laughing, drinking, and then throwing her a casual glance. A nod, a half- smile, which never reaches his eyes, and then another look towards her.  A woman walks over to his side, gently tugging at his arm. He takes her hand, in the process, extricating himself from her.
And now, turning over to talk to the waiter, he throws a wink at the blue sapphire lady.

She is pleasantly surprised, but feigns a disgusted expression, raising her eyebrows. And her brown almond eyes light up with the same fire, the fire she has still not grown accustomed to, even though the night is now inching towards dawn.

------

Outside on the tarmac, fidgeting through her coat, trying to find the car keys, she breathes sharply as his arm grazes her waist.
“ I couldn't take my eyes off of you”, he whispers.
 She flushes a deep red, the glow of her cheeks visible even in the dark.
And smiling, she says, “Drive us home, you. I know you have the keys.”

“What a wicked game to play, to make me feel this way
What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you…”



Wicked game- Gemma Hayes

Chills

He didn't know how to tell time, differentiating the day from the night was all he had learnt. But that too duped him from time to time, carrying its own fair share of complexity. What was it called when he could barely open his eyes, lying limp, his body in a hundred convulsions, from as long as he could remember? A rushed construction of words later, his father picks him up, along with the tattered blanket from the night before, walking barefoot, stepping down from the pavement. The day thus begins.

Or maybe he speaks of a thousand other tales, which we've been taught to shut our eyes and ears to.

--------

He stands beside the car, arms outstretched, seeking just another coin, or if luck was on his side today, maybe he could begin with a little higher than a rupee.

And I, shamefacedly, try not to flinch. No, not because other people are looking at me or them, for they’re busy putting their minds into appearing busy, finally, some work for their Samsung Galaxies and Blackberries.

I argue with myself over handing over the man some money, would it help him, would it not, shouldn't I get him food instead, but what if he sells it off again, does the money even stay with them or do they have to hand it over to someone, would I only be aiding and abetting crime in this fashion, am I even carrying change?
As I’m still contemplating, searching my pockets, the driver starts the engine.

I didn’t do what was in my capacity to lessen the child’s troubles, even if it would have shushed the pain for a moment. The moment of hesitance shouldn't have existed. But it did, debouching from my heart, into the morning fog.

It was a cold morning. We felt different chills.

Grass

The hem of her pastel sundress is  fluttering in the wind. It isn’t  stormy, just windy enough to  unsettle the mundane nature of her  life, and softly, adding to her allure  by blowing charms into the  shimmers of her soul.

God has been kind enough today. The skies are set a brilliant, deep blue, clouds establishing their presence, but doing nothing to exemplify it. Beauty, they say, takes a million forms; sadly, most of them remain oblivious to our eyes and hearts alike.

Her slender legs, knee deep in the weeds, work their way past the lush green edge and reach the concrete. A strong rush of wind upsets her lustrous brown locks and her fingers end up tucking the strands back, behind her ear, a little hesitance, a touch of anticipation. She can’t stand still; the restlessness is building up with every passing minute.
-------------------------------

Off at some distance, two children, sit, cross-legged, by the stream. The girl child is nearly 7, the boy perhaps a year or two older. They carry little blocks of wood, a few pebbles and little blue-green spheres.
“No, don’t put that in the water!” says the boy to the girl, whose frail arms extend forward, holding one such sphere. Though she’s seemingly fragile by her looks, her hands are unusually sturdy, as she holds the object almost in contact with the water’s surface, ready to submerge it in.

With a quick flip of her cute head, the black of her hair falling over her eyes, she asks him, “Why not?”
“ It’s beautiful, look at it. It’s blue, it’s green. 

If you put it in, you never know how bad it could get.”

“But it will always be beautiful! “, she quips in.
He looks at her, half wanting to push her instead,
 in the water, the other half wanting to cling onto the sphere.
“ It’s not just that, what if bad things happen to it, in there?” That is all he can manage.
“Bad things don’t scare it, it’s strong, see?" And she holds her hand out for him to see.
“Yes, now give it back to me, I’ll take care of it, you don’t have to worry”, he says, stretching his fingers, in anticipation, aiming for a proper hold.


But being the little devil that she is, she snatches it away.


Giggling, teasing him, her eyes smiling, she whispers, “It will swim in the water and then go off to sleep.”
“ It can’t swim. It will die.” His annoyance is building up. But he takes a deep breath in, and now manages a look that says he’s nothing more than a little perplexed by her behaviour.


-------------------------------------------------

Standing against a pillar on the roadside, she looks ahead, taking in as much as the place has to offer to her eyes. A 6-lane, deserted highway separates her from the vast expanse of fields on the other side. The sun nowhere to be seen, she looks at her watch. He’s an hour late.


----------------------------------------------------

She’s still giggling and his face is now red with anger.
“It will die. Do you want it to die?” he asks her, a pleading edge to his voice.
“Maybe it will die, after all! “, she teases him further.

“Give it to me. I will keep it safe”, he mutters, through clenched teeth.
She senses his anger, drops the ball onto the grass and looks away, pretending to be busy with arranging the different logs.
He can almost hear the tears as they slip down her face and onto her pretty dress.
He picks up the little ball.

----------------------------------------------------------------

The sun shows up, ready to move over the hills and sink into a sleep, for it is obliged to pay everyone another visit the next day.
To walk into the sunset, together, it was something she had longed for. But, with no signs of any oncoming traffic, her heart sinks. Still on the road, she tries to move and get the frown off her face.
A current of icy wind blows past her, and she realizes she isn’t well equipped to handle the cold. It’s time to return home.
She takes in a deep breath, also taking in the absolute, flawless beauty of the miracle she’s witnessing.
Hues of green, blue, yellow amalgamating in the gorgeous cover on the earth and a rich, vivid orange, flirting with a touch of crimson in the sky.


She lets out a sigh, his name on her lips, attached, unspoken and so loved.

With a heavy heart, she turns. But his arms find her, and then envelop her. His lips, barely inches away from hers.
He’s finally home. So is she.


---------------------------------------

As they walk back together, they overhear a conversation.
“You know it belongs to us”, says a boy.
“I wasn’t going to throw it away”, mumbles a girl.
“I know. “
“And?”
“I’m sorry”, says the boy.
She giggles, again.
And smiling, he hands her back, not just one but all the spheres.

 
                 

Peaches and plums. Forget the strawberries.

Peaches and plums, a hint of red; and in between, rests, everything that ever stood for warmth.

Even the green the grass wears seems welcoming, as if every single dew-drop has gone out of its way to make the story more appealing to your eyes.

Happy picture?

 She had grown accustomed to the dark,even inviting it in, more so out of habit than anything else. We seek the familiar,don’t we?
She shifts her elbow, now supporting her face, lying down, in bed. She sits, waiting for her stroke of genius, the reverberation of her thoughts,nearly deafening.

We live in a masquerade of dignity, our swords nothing but eye candy and our armour, rusted. Chunks falling out, with every look we’re faced to make over our backs. Certainly not the pretty picture you wanted it to be. And well even if pictures could be pretty, who said truth ever is?

It wasn’t like melancholy came crashing down her  with a shield so weak, and rattled though she would be, peace visited her more often than the storms. It was the tainted image of every one (which included herself) that she had conjured up, which had taken its own place in her mind and now,refused to budge,the images tormented her. And they shook the very foundations on which her world and ideals were built. The fact that she too was equally pathetic, if not more, crushed her, repeatedly, in waves of shame. And visits to these shady corners left her speechless, out of the sheer humiliation they brought.

We have our own definitions of misery, and we differ in how we measure it too. What makes the guy she met today, have sleepless nights, may not even make her flinch.And maybe what makes her stay up all night, may only make someone else have a good laugh.

Staring at the walls since the past few hours, she  now lets out a chuckle, “ I’m winning,you know” But her muffled laughter doesn’t bother the wall, it still stands tall, unflustered.

Escaping into some careless,wreckless journey for her mind is no more a solution. It long lost its allure.

The one comfort she knows is that love takes you out of the guilt ride you’ve  taken. Love smothers you, spoils you. But then, love accepts you. And makes you accept yourself too, more often than not.
So,this toast, to love.
Ready to doze off, she turns her head, only to see a reflection, another picture, only so real. A kid, his hair the shade of sunlight and eyes glimmering as bright as the sun itself, is staring right back at her.

He’s beckoning the world to indulge in a smile.Who is she to resist?

And then she remembers how much he loves kids. And, she is all smiles.

i adore you because you own that car,that house,that face

A little shade of near- misanthropy crushes your otherwise human-heart and all that goes into the making of a soul, into mulch. It’s more like a pulpy mass whose stink can never wane off your breath, as long as you walk this earth. Add narcissism to the equation and your existence should be questionable. Well, not yours, but mine. Who are we kidding?

Humans, to me, have always been at the extreme – dirty edge when it comes to disgust causing-agents. Worse than cockroaches (no offense to you guys, but don’t even start an argument, you are creepy) And now that I find myself more and more surrounded by these mean, shrewd, calculating ,heartless butchers for people, I find myself helpless, left, defenseless to their ruthlessness and their mind-games and all such endeavors which draw nothing but spite, hateful spite from me.  So as I crumble, day by day, shrinking into a dark, forgotten space, some oblivion, I could happily pet a cockroach.

What seems shittier? That money and the power to hold 'more' in your hands is taking over the entire human species, or that this greed and obsession is all that defines a human being now? In between the gold-rush, the money-hogging, the luxury-rain, humans have been reduced to a sub-species. And that is what you ought to call the making of sub-humans, with exteriors as that of humans, and ethics, values, purpose, goals, work, rotting away, and the stench unbearable. The thought makes me dizzy.

Since when did we learn to set everything aside with our oh-so-judgmental eyes (and minds filled with all but bowls-full of crap), considering how much financial-value it held, to us and maybe to the fucked up stranger we happened to cross on the road, who was ‘low’ enough to be in possession of such and such thing, or ‘high’ enough by our cheap standards. In that one single flashing moment, when we crossed paths(or eyes) all that mattered to us was, the size of the bulge of his wallet. Oh fuck you, if you think this is laughable. But all situations considered and petty assumptions not even brought near to the subject, this is exactly what it comes down to. Money,luxuries,wealth, and then another blunder goes in as our doing, when we , low-lives take a step down shit-heads+ crap-mouths lane to think of success in terms of these parameters. I feel nauseated.

Vanity driven machines, cold, unfeeling zombies, that’s what has become of us. We are now accustomed to tuning ourselves in a way where we give not a tiny rat’s ass to the lengths we have to go to snatch away, what may or may not be ours. Filthy greed, 'the more the better' , the things we step over and crush in the process, aplenty.  Creating ego satisfaction points out of every little damn thing and thus, making the transition from egoistic to ego-centric individuals, because for each one of us,the nucleus that is running the world is ‘us’, our own self.

And to please thyself, lay not a fuck to the shameless trampling we undertake, envisaging a world where we alone matter. No other soul comes close, no matter how thick the blood or how all-consuming the love might be which flows between thy self and that other individual (who may or may not serve the sub-human paradigm). 

Impervious to the disgrace we bring to us all, we shamelessly carry on. Pseudo worlds, pseudo us.

Different day,same red

Backdrop of a deep crimson
fiery red’s past,
the craving mellowed down,
death creeping up,
working its slow course

Heavy-lidded eyes and she vows to tell
no other tale,
not another word
that her eyes don’t offer


“Do we…?”

Her eyes fixated
on that day,
sun sinking beyond valleys,
and them  two,
never-time, never-land

Strong, crisp winds
the chill pierces through ,
Intoxicated, she edges closer
The window,
it holds a promise

Her slender fingers ,
over the red satin,
among the heavy curtains
a wide enough slit,
But hope still can’t sneak in

Withdrawing herself,
never lowering her gaze,
no tinge of disappointment,
steadies herself,
elegance, writing every step

“Send him in”,she says
without the slightest quiver.
Turns her back,
drifting into blankness,
red, yet again

Hate-love-lust,
slivers of her being
She swivels down the same path,
deliberating whether to,
make him look,
as she concedes defeat,
ending up, where she is.
And inside her,
long breeds a longing,
that aches her body, much
and heart worse,
an urge,improbable ; for her to be saved,
and saved by him alone.

The door shuts.
A man has entered,
The black silks,
drop, over her shoulders.

And with a cursory
movement, where her fingers,
meet the edge of her dewy-eye,
she turns,
her heart carrying an unspoken wish,
the wish- that it be him.

Skewed realities

Earphones plugged in, shushing down the world and dragging out my thought-demons.
Steps. Five in number. Then the landing.
--------------

My legs ache for comfort. Earlier in the day, they spent four hours, contorted in a little space in the classroom. Tough thing.
His, at 60 plus are forced to work, all day long.
I, am just 20.
I often quote “ I need seven hours of continuous, undisturbed sleep to be able to figure out how to walk the next day, otherwise I’m as good as stoned, baby. “
He, probably gets up at 5 every morning and then reaches home late at night. In between, he does not get more than a few hours of sleep. Comfort  kept miles away from the picture.
I, just turned 20.
_______________

I am still in a queue. Another 20 year old happens to be withdrawing cash. He seems to be taking a lot of time. Multiple transactions , a college trip, my mind perceives while I try hard to stay patient, waiting for the guy to make way for me.
His fingers work on the touch-screen. I look up to my right and curse. A tiny ceiling fan. Tiny..  Drops of sweat. It is a hot summer day.
I am still on the last of the five steps. Waiting. Myles Kennedy crooning a love song. Volume thus pumped up another level.

______________

I did not have anything for lunch. Because the food was a shade of yellow which I happen to dislike. I feel a little dizzy.
He had a cold, dry meal today, the same he has had for the past two years, the food wrapped up in something, packed up in another.
He is more than 65.

_________

Suddenly  my sight shifts to a man seated in a crooked chair in the corner. Or maybe it is a stool.
His uniform, a shade of khaki. His legs crossed.
He is reading something, a piece of paper. A piece of trash somebody dropped. He realizes that.
The next sight clouds up my vision. The little flimsy yet somehow very graceful manner in which he removes the specs, places them in his other hand while he works with the case with the other,  draws out a silent shriek from me. And as he puts them back to the place where they go, (then the case in a polythene bag he is carrying), I shiver. He gets up, moves to his left, drops the piece of paper in the dust-bin. With his shoulders drooping a little, his steps coordinated in that slow motion, he walks back to the chair/stool. Takes up his job where he left it. Guarding the bank and the ATM.

I can’t look at that skewed corner of our world.
The old man deserves to be at home and looked after.
He is nearly 70.

Of a conquered heart

Woe stricken, the heart,
misery grafted into its walls,
anguish rooted deeply within,
the first steps laid,
risky; as you test the waters,
before taking a plunge in.

The grandeur of it all,
its sheen mesmerizing,
to the eye
and the heart alike,
well, flames that promise
to light up fires


But despair can never thrill,
never hold captive the heart
for all you know,
the shimmer dies out,
blackens time along with
adding a little blotch to the past

Real wonders lie put,
oft unseen,
all it takes,
a little touch to your harried self,
a word addressing the tears withheld,
awakened you are.


The rosy pictures can fade
when the strength within wavers,
with diluted acceptances,
when purposes fail,

life goes back to haunt
and you,the haunted.

** leaving it incomplete