Forever?

"Forever?" it was a question, or an answer to what he was asking himself for the last few days, to things he couldn't understand, satanic, ghostly, sometimes lovely, tempting, kind of a rubber ball held in hands, pressed against the pressure and its own past, to the will of a single man, or of the whole universe, or just of its fate - questions lurking so deep, so deep that he felt them become part of his anatomy, physical, spiritual, and sometimes he saw them becoming he, clouding over his existence with such god-dam bleakness that he wanted to run away, far to a distant place, and while running he saw his thoughts clutching at him, and dragging him back to the point where he had started, and then he asked such things - to whom? - that was not important. Forever doesn't come on its own, you got to make way for it; and then after its lifetime, un-make for another forever. No forever is for ever. "Heck, you don't know even the basic principles," she cried at him, seeing him lost, duped with the uncertainty of the certain.

Men are the lost animals.
And when they try to seek for themselves, they find only darkness.
They are what they are not; what they should never be.
Personal crisis.

"Can you guarantee me your love for the whole of our lives, this one, the next one, and the next…write me this, and fix it somewhere in the history, can you?" The anger, built over silence is nauseating. He was stinking of his thoughts, of the lack of thoughts, of disorder, of hatred. She could have held his hands then, put his head in her lap, stroked his hairs, her fingers soothing his head, the disordered, burning head, sweeping the remnants of hatred away from the roots of his hairs, and have talked him through that mess. But she had her own mess to talk to. Her personal dustbin.

That night he couldn’t sleep a wink.
And the night after.
And after.

Until he left home, in one similar dark night, left her sleeping in the dining hall, on the porch, where she snored hanging between the floor and the roof, precarious balance, he thought, at mercy of four iron rods, her whole life, and found no space for a fifth rod. And he left, without any letter under her pillow, or any indication to tell her about his exodus from hell to god-knows-what. Her breathe, typically masculine breathe, followed him until the main door of the house and bid him good-byes, best-of-lucks, fir-aanas. Even her snore wasn’t part of her.

“I am blank these days. Nothing seems to cross my way. What...at peace? I am not sure. But it’s quite....you know...the kind of tranquility they used to talk about and the sound they said that started all...am soundless these days...nothing much...”

“Once you are into this game, all you know is fear.” I could sense his eyes piercing through my skull, reaching me, to the basest core of mine. “Aren’t you scared?”

“Who...me..why?” and moved his eyes off my shoulder, at the painting pinned to the wall. “Look at that.”

“You stop talking in abstract terms. Take on with it if it’s that irresistible. Don’t screw your life.”

Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight whom? There wasn’t any enemy, only a thought - a distraction.

i am damned

And a play,
yes, another play,
is damned -
clogged on the ground
like hopes in life,
lost and crammed.

Love is a destiny,
unattainable.

Each moment,
each one of your life,
you play
and
you lose.

Love is a game,
unattainable.

And games are never won,
neither lost.

Love is never won,
neither lost.

Only played.

Only lived.

And then, in the end.

Only forgotten.

And a love,
yes, another love,
is damned.

Ah!
honey,
I am damned.

Can you save me?
And the soul of mine.

i am blood

A trickle of blood
drained, castrated,
of life.

Flows towards me
to suck me in.

To eat into
another life.

Blood inside me,
outside me,
around me.

I flail.

Then

I drown.

Then

I am red.

Bloody red.
I am blood.

If something is increasing with each passing day that has to have a meaning, meaning that is profound and deep and which is rooted somewhere far deeper than our eyes can chase, and our understanding can decipher. And then begins the great saga, and written then is the history.

I was not he. Still, I could peep into his heart and see how he feels a particular feeling and reciprocate to that, when he fell there in front of her, decrying himself and his ego and whatever remnant of self-respect he was left with, openly, in front of everyone, of her, of himself, and when he bent down to his knees and folded his palms, entwined his fingers, I felt as if he was about say a prayer, but no, there was no god in front of him, no temple, no pundit…that wasn’t a prayer, prayers are never said with tears in eyes, with such an afflicting pain in heart and so much plead in voice, he was not praying, he was begging. Yes. That’s what he was doing - begging for her, to her.

I cried. Yelled at the fullest of my voice.

Blinds don’t listen.

Later, when she was gone, I carried him in my arms. Still in the failure of that moment, he couldn’t understand what happened. And what was happening. He thought he was dreaming, in the night, in the dark night, in the darkest of all nights. There was no dawn lurking, no sun lingering, no light, no hope, only darkness, stark darkness…all bleak. All bleak!

I felt as if I was inside him, as if all his nerves and wires touched me before they reached his brain, his pulses were mine, his blood mine, his failure mine.

That was a strange connection: connection that didn’t connect anything, but didn’t even leave anything unconnected too. Strange mathematics.

He needed to talk. He needed it so damn much, so damn urgently, and he kept looking at the roads and trees and passersby. But never at me. He was probably ashamed of himself. Of the act that had disgraced his existence. Of me being a witness of that act.

Did he need consolation? Or rewards? Or just a chance to rewrite his past, his history?

But talking is not always an easy game. Especially when you have so much to talk about and you don’t know where to start from. There is no single point to get into, not a single opening, not a crack, not a hole, no doors, no windows, nothing to peep in through, but only the desperate urgency to get inside the trap and vent your feelings out for the external world to look at, to laugh at, to make fun of.

Sometimes you want to be humiliated. Sometimes you want to be segregated, castrated.

I couldn’t start the long due conversation, and kept driving. The breeze blowing in through the window kept my head cool. And suddenly he found a crack, like it rains in otherwise sunny day, suddenly and abruptly with no pre-omen, no pre-sign, and jumped onto the thread, “you know what it feels like?”

“like hell.”

“yeah. Like hell.” He looked at me, his eyes flooded with self-pity, his hands fixed on his thighs, clutching as if his legs were a prized possession which were sold in an auction and soon he would lose them, as if his legs were his love, the last remnant of what he was when the first day he saw her, the first time he talked to her, the first evening they went on a ride, the first night he took her out for a dinner, and a few moments ago, when he threw himself on the ground before her, begging and pleading, on his knees, his legs had held him, close to earth, close to himself, to his love, and now he would lose them, any moment, to an unknown future, unplanned life. His grip tightened. His look fixed more sternly. Lost somewhere between this world and the void, in the space between me and he, in the thoughts of love and loss, he was pinned.

All I had for him then was pity.

I hated such moments of self-denouncement. And I hated him for this.

make me free...!

Make me free
Make me fly
high high high
high in the
sky!

Angels Angels
take me away
with you
far far far
far-beyond the blue
sky!

My throat is chocked
My things are done.
I am in the queue
waiting my turn.

I look,
now
past my past,
and find the brightest
of my moment
bidding me, and
cry!

Choose me.
Choose me.
Don't leave me,
dry!

No pain
No joy
and not a certainty
of life or love
there I will
die!

Dreams chase me here,
Hopes cage me here
and I fall short of breathe
gasping,
I utter my finality
slowly, closing my
eye!

I hesitated

I hesitated
the first time,
I took you in my arm,

And the first bow
I hit
At your green charm.

I fumbled in the dark
Around you,
the first time
I entered you.

I hesitated
in believing
what was true,
in the light far
far-inside you.

And when I came out,
I couldn't un-enter you.
indeed I could not.

Living inside-out
or altogether in?
it's only you
wherever I've been.

The strings
you tied the first time,
time when I hesitated
hangs around
telling tales-of-your-love,

Your light
brightens up my day,
outliving the sun
shines my way,
in little sparks, in its play.

I hesitated then,
to accept it.
I hesitate now,
to acknowledge it.

My hesitation is my proof
of my naivety.
Your acceptation of me,
of your nicety.

Love is not in making it believe,
Love is in believing in it to conceive.
"I love you" I say
"Me too love you" I receive.

That's a big thing to say,
b'cos love is not an easy play.

death and/or life

Lying idle on your bed, braving nuisances and bruises, scared for your love, your life, of death...ah...this is what you come up with. Don't take it seriously, just gulp them in.

Strip your soul
and empty your heart.
If you got to understand,
just break yourself apart.

And begin anew,
afresh, un-rehearsed,

Death crosses life,
or life sucks on death,
it wouldn't matter,
nothing would fall apart.

Death and life will fuse,
Become friends, and
all fear will depart.

When you see death coming,
You cling to life.
until then, life is just a-body-part.

When you have just one moment left,
Life becomes so precious,
so empty, so undone.
And then, you find something
you want to do the most.

That wish is life.
That wish is life only.
That wish is my love,
That wish is you, honey.

And the moment,
the moment of death becomes an eternity.
that retains in the heart,
my heart, her heart,
my pain, her pain,
and life - yes honey - life,
becomes art.

you are me

You are me
And I am you.

Our connection, our wire,
This is our glue.

A single truth,
Rest all untrue.

Eternal is every moment,
And true is all hue.

In you, I am fine.
outside, all blue.

'A love anthem'
I write every day, for you
we'll sing secretly, and
none would have a clue.

And truth will seep through.
To the body, then heart,
then soul,
until we become one, not two.

You in me,
I in you.

My feeble love - II

Read Here: "My Feeble Love - I"

Alone and mislaid,
I walk down the shade.
Distrait this time,
for none is my aid.

Forgotten as I am,
Abandoned as I am,
I dare not to think of you,
and my impotency - unable to do a thing,
even to move a pebble,
or my thoughts away from you,
I grow heavy,
And little coward too.

Once, we braved those dreams together,
in those lovely nights, embracing each other.
And when you feared going ahead,
I took you by hand, and drove off shore.
“Let’s melt into each other, and become one.
As if you are all, and I am none.”
You proclaimed this, then, with you head on my shoulder
And eyes, drowning into mine,
which grew bolder and bolder,
with passing time.
It happened only a few days ago.
What did I do, honey, to turn you to such a virago?

Make me understand,
shona,
What all is going on?
What made you to walk out on me,
Did you love him more than ever,
you loved me before?

Don’t desert me – honey - in this combat.
Don’t leave me “just like that.”

Words are betraying me,
Feelings are forbidding me,
I am fit for nothing...here,
Is all they seem to convince me, dear.

A man is nothing,
if he has nothing to live for.
I would perish, I know,
I...just want to see you before.

To undo all the days,
that passed, without you,
flat, cloyed of your absence,
with a soft brush of your hairs.

To un-cry all the bitter tears,
I flooded my pillow with,

To un-dream everything,
That has a strand of you.

And to perish, if that’s to be,
Alone, and mislaid,
the way I am straying,
now, like a spaid,
nothing can set me free,
don't you see?

surprise...surprise...'I LoVe YoU'

"I love you." He said, "I mean I love talking to you." oh! But things were conveyed, said, and the mask was discarded.

Surprise…yes…else how would you lose your heart beats; how would you find yourself flummoxed over a relation that is only a few days, or rather few hours - can I say, old yet few lifetimes seem engulfed in it; how would you lose your control to control your thoughts, feelings, rationalities, and all your expedient plans for your life, your future and end up falling in love with a person you barely know, except of some kind of illusionary connection, attachment screaming: you-are-made-for-each-other. This is how miracles happen. This is how you are taken by surprise and thrown up, upbeat, buoyant, among those sparkling, blissful stars. And you realize - yes! - this is what you were waiting for so long, for all your life, passing through so many mundane day-today-ness that you had almost forgotten about it. So, a miracle was needed. A surprise was needed.

“Life is made of crisscross squares. And every cross has its own rule.” When you cover a long distance in just few hours, blink-now-at-moon-blink-again-back-on-earth, as if some infinitely powerful gadget has ordered time to stop, or as if you are made less aware of time as it passes by, whatever may it be, you lose the sense of time-and-space when you travel such an expeditious journey and finally in the end, you see things your eyes wouldn’t believe in, you feel feelings your heart wouldn’t give in, and the world would turn hazy, its eyes drooping, limping upon you, as though it hasn’t slept for nights awaiting your arrival. This is a strange thing to happen. But what else would you call a miracle then? Her world had roads, infinite roads, never ending, from one stop to another, all brief and straight, and today, after her long journey, she, anticipating yet another road to cross hers, grew little weary about losing grip over her own life. She had to make a decision, and making a decision is dangerous. She continued, “You have not seen me, do you realize it?” Why so many strange things were happening to him today? What realization could he achieve, had he seen her? How did she look, or how did she walk, or how did she dress up? Realization is a strange concept. Ah! “You haven’t understood me yet.” What else could he have replied?

Love, where it spawns, scatters a vague delusion around it. You wouldn’t understand what’s going on with you, so to ease you, love projects a special melodramatic show and you fall into its trap: make-believe trap. Besotted as they were, now for the making of love was on, they had to collaborate. The tongues were to slip, the covers were to unveil, the desires were to fly - the forbidden was to set free. Now there was no escape. Things started to swoop down on them, and they were dragged along. And words, those enchanting but interdicted words, came out, in shed, hidden behind a mask. And after a while when all covers matured redundant: “I love you.” He said, “I mean I love talking to you.” oh! But things were conveyed, said, and the mask was discarded.

It took her a while, however, to divulge the sudden spurt of her heart beating. And by the time, normalcy reigned again, she was in love. In spite of never having seen him, or talked to him, or heard his voice, or known his disposition, or read his past, present, in spite of everything that should have been done, as rules say, as the love-tomes say, as those deified lovers say, in spite of un-normalcy, of breach in traditions, she was in love. Love doesn’t ask what-where-how-why-who-when, it just takes you over and things are set. Just like that. Straight and simple! Until then silence prevailed above the fogged suddenness.

And after a brief pause, soundlessness, because a great many words, puissant words, efficacious words, capable of altering the course of stars as they fix their path with other stars, potent to make a life, were imminent, she replied, “I love you too.”

Surprise...was it a surprise?

“When did it start?”

“The day I read your poem for the first time, there was something terribly appealing, and I wished they were written for me.” It was now safe for her to travel back on time, and watch her past unveiling before her, telling tales of that turmoil she was in few days ago, revealing that feeling, that moment of utter confusion, that longing, that desire, that hope to herself, and find peace in the newly found love of her life. “I prayed it to come true.”

“And it did na?”

“Oh! I can’t express it, this is wonderful.”

And a story spawned from the there….

Though they say, everything is preplanned, peremptorily written, still, life doesn’t come to us like in a play a scene comes to an actor performing on stage, life has different rules; it takes us by surprise. That’s why life is alive. For so many years. And love too.