Am I only alive because I have the capability to die? Is that the only proof of me being alive?
We were sitting on the platform of a fountain that resided ever so slightly near the edge of a hill. The sky was dark but the view had been so beautifully lit by the civilizations and vehicles that existed. The hills nearby were always adorned with such dots of lights during night and I was sitting next to her. There was a dog too lying blissfully near the fountain.
She mostly kept her hair tied but whenever it was dark and no one could see her, she would let the strands free. Her locks were black, amazingly curly and more tangled than the string theory ever can be but her hair would perfectly flow next to her face, and fall gently on her shoulders.
Just when I was admiring the view of her and the landscape, she showed a sudden change of expression. She seemed anxious and when I asked why she pointed at the dark view in front of us. Apparently the lights had all gone, perhaps a power cut of some sort, but that saddened her for a while.
I am very sure about the fact that I had only looked away for a second or less because I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw her next. She was still sad but this time I saw the same dots of lights earlier on the hill now on her hair strands. Amidst the dark, she had those firefly-like lights somehow embedded lined up on her hair. Blue, red, yellow, the headlights to the house lights, all shining on her black hair. Then one of the dots of light slipped through one strand and fell down like a droplet. I was eagerly observing what would happen next given my disbelief till now. The moment the light droplet hit the concrete floor, it created a wave of light that rippled through space and spread its shine everywhere.
I was awestruck, she was confused and the dog jumped to its toes. She looked at some of her hair that was in the front and realized immediately somehow as if she had already dreamt of this happening. She then gave a playful smile and bit her lower lip, then shook her head with a childlike smile, her kind of smile. As she shook her head, all the small light droplets just scattered around surrounding our feet and resulted in the creation of waves of colors that I had never seen together like that. She continued to do that as I witnessed a starry explosion under my feet and my universe wrapped around her hair, my universe wrapped by her.
And I chase the mist at times
hoping perhaps to find a place
where I can hide completely from the world for once
but as far I go into the mist, there seems to be none left
until I can see a corn field with a path right in the middle
I tread the path thinking it was meant for me
hoping perhaps to find another coming my way
and so I will be complete, saved finally
but as close as I seem to be getting, the stranger the person seems to me
it sure must be weird keeping a mirror amidst the fields
There is a young boy, who wears an aqua green textured kurta
that reaches just a little below his waistline
with the kind of fabric that has wrinkled on the elbow fold of its full sleeves
It fits him a little loose on his thin physique
A 5 year old boy, wearing this and walking around with his tiny footsteps
that try to cope up with his eyes that pace in all directions simultaneously
He is far visioned, not predicting the future
instead predicting how the road will embrace him next when he falls
because he looks everywhere but down
His tiny feet walk on mud, grass and concrete and love each one the same
And I know that his walk has the purpose of chase
Now he could chase anything, hair, hand, legs or shoes
But he chases only the shawls of kurtas red, green and yellow
And the falls of sarees black, blue and white
Some things to grab on, perhaps the only things he remembers of her
He walks on, without destination
Sometimes he doesn’t notice how far the chase has brought him
And when he gets tired he sits somewhere on the top of a hill
Staring somewhere at infinity trying to find out exactly where the horizon is
Trying to find out the answers to all of his questions
Questions of why, how, why not
Questions that no one has the answers to
Maybe that is the reason he wishes to inflict pain upon himself
To maybe search what he looks for in blood and bruise
Touching sishnu with love as if saying you don’t have to be alone
I’ll take the pain if it makes you feel loved.
But as he walked one day along a bricked street in his old chase
He was lifting his hands up and following when he noticed his hand change its color
So he halts right under a sun kissing red translucent plastic roof
Followed by more such roofs that make up a rainbow sky
His skin ignited with candy colors and his eyes widened
And he ran across the street over and over again
Noticing how quickly the floor changed the beautiful colors
With him as the 8th one from the collection of seven
His moment of beauty ended when the street did
But that rainbow sky became his thing of beauty forever
And he no longer chased memories of past or future
He chased colors of now.
A little bit of blue on your grey skies, and I’ll stay
Conditions on my love, dear, then I’ll stay
Selfish is my love, only then can I stay
Because selfless I tried once, and I lost myself
And I left, so now I will stay with the self that is left.
Spend sleepless nights with you
This I promise, to befriend your insomnia
I promise to fight your nightmares
Because I know they are the reason why you don’t sleep
I promise to rescue you from yourself.
(Dedicated to K, the happiness)
I was taught that the sky was full of stars,
Then I learnt that the stars too had their own skies.
A beautiful buddhist monk
She had hair as short as the time she spent with her family
Skin, flawless with the black moles the only things reminding of her past life
She had beautiful raised cheek bones
Baby pink lips that needed no paint
And teeth perfectly aligned, as if in a formation, as if disciplined
I must have saved a life at some point of my multi-lived time
that I so happened to catch a glimpse of her right outside a shrine
From a distance I was pacing forth
While she was placid, just there inside a shop
as normal as one could be, as divine as she could be.
And I wished when i was back home
To see her sitting statically on my table
I would clad her in all God’s clothes
For her to wear the beautiful robes
The thick maroon fabric like blood that would run diagonal from her shoulder
Diagonal to her waist, diagonal like the sword cut
The smoke that emerged from incense sticks
So ironically mocks her unliberated statue
She would be counting rose beads with one hand
And hold a beautiful lotus on the other
And one somehow more gently on my head
and I would sit there bowing, when everything would just pause
And echoes of the bass of a gong would still me for a while
Then I would cry in the overwhelming feeling
Of her touch on my soul
So I can cry on my sins
So I can cry on death
The kind of death that was the only solution
for things that perished, for beauty that faded
The kind of immortality that could only be caused by my psychosis
The blood cannot be seen through the robes, i swear,
The smell of rotting doesn’t rise beyond the incense
It all started with the setting of a lavish restaurant where Sinatra entered in the most extravagant suit complimented by a hat along with the company of more extravagance. The entire room smelled of champagne, caviars and diamonds and he was trying to find love in the fake laugh of the beautiful woman sitting before him. Then he noticed the singer who had been singing in a moderate volume with a music which failed to match the setting and was more real to the ear than Sinatra could expect from such a place. In that split second glimpse of the band, the background blabbering of his wife and the twinkle of all the crystals that her cherry blonde hair strands wore took him someplace he remembered the most clearly.
Everything was brassy, the chairs, the tables, the bar and the drinks. An old place that felt young as it hung music on its walls that rung there permanently in there own spaces and with time each one got its chance to come forth the loudest. And here Sinatra entered with a group of boys wearing faded and stained shirts and trousers with suspenders. Each of them having a drink to hold and their youths painted on their faces.
It all began rapidly and ended even quicker. He saw her there dancing and singing, laughing through her dark maroon lipstick and eyes closed as she lived in that second when the beat jumped through her flowing cherry blonde hair. He went to her and matched her rhythm and they danced like it had all been choreographed before, the conversations. He told her what he was and she could understand exactly, his pain and hurt. She could make people cry with her voice but he was susceptible because he had her and so he had control. A studio apartment, instruments, bliss and them sleeping together on a mattress.
The split second ended and he was back in the age when the face reflected lesser than what he had lost in time. The singer wore a glitter dress and sang like the nightingale did, and he sat there looking at her singing his life. The love and hurt; the smile and pain; him and her; everything. His love still dissolved in her youth once married to music, and he desperately wished for her to sing him back to the time. Her voice was killing him softly and he was no longer immune because he did not have the control, he could not have her.
“She sang as if she knew him in all his dark despair and then she looked right through him as if he wasn’t there. But she was there, the stranger, singing clear and strong. Killing him softly with her song, telling his whole life with her words, killing him softly with her song.”