I had the Chutzpah to Wash Myself Free of Her

I wrote this poem while at work, simply to use the various words I had up on the wall as inspiration but never did use. There are some words that I can no longer remember the meaning of...

But I love the way they all sound nonetheless.

I had the Chutzpah to Wash Myself Free of Her

It was pure and utter serendipity.

The first time I saw her,

She had all the panache of a Victoria’s Secret runway model.

It was in a department store.

She was standing still.

Achingly so, like all the world couldn’t have inspired a movement.

I stepped closer.

‘COWABUNGA!’

I knew our relationship could only be quixotic.

In a few weeks I took her home.

Our life together was a labyrinth,

Bamboozled by my idealistic dreams

And her ataraxic nature.

She always smelled of fresh laundry.

And I, of petrichor.

But our shenanigans were fairly transient.

She was acting ridiculous and I,

Was pernicious to her health.

And so I,

In a lackadaisical moment,

Left her standing out by the door.

Where she haunts me every day

In her ephemeral beauty.

Her pizzazz fading with the days,

Weeks, months, years.

Saudade.

Saudade.

Saudade.

Our time together lingers,

Festers,

Obfuscates.

My current quandary

A riptide through my being.

This vermicious pain is quintessential.

But it’s such a buzzkill.

Her body is now a palimpsest.

Rust, leaves, metal, vines.

Green, white, brown.

Her pulchritude even more irresistible.

Only she could smell fresher than laundry.

Saudade.

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And now if you are wondering who she is, as so many people have, I present to you, her:

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Weirdly Normal

They were twins. Fraternal twins to be precise, seeing that they couldn’t have been identical although they looked it. You see, one of them was female and the other was a male. They were inseparable, always hanging around the other when they weren’t actually standing next to them.

Normal grew up to be the favourite amongst her peers and their parents. She almost always wore black. Even if she wore any other colour, she wasn’t one to experiment with her clothing and always played it safe. She was always dressed properly, her hair always in place, combed and pinned back. The only thing out of place was her fringe, and it irritated her to no end.

On the other hand, Weird, with his wild and curly messy hair, played pretend with himself, carrying out social experiments in his head. He always wore mismatched or rainbow socks, and ended up being made fun of for the very reason. Because he was bullied so much by his peers, he grew up to hate them and people in general, never really making any friends.

Though Normal was shy, she was always surrounded by people. They included her in all their circles, even though she was always standing in the wings and never in the spotlight. Weird always hung around Normal, never talking to anyone but her, never enjoying being in other people’s presence and was always lost in his own thoughts.

All through elementary school, Weird was bullied. For being different and simply too weird. And because Normal was too shy to speak up, there was no one to stop it. Their parents were too busy working to notice what was happening in their home. Although they spent time with their kids over the weekends, playing games and cooking together, there really never was time to sit down and talk about school or work. Weekends were days when they all just wanted to have fun and forget about the week. There were a few times Normal tried to talk about Weird’s situation and would bring up the topic, but Weird would always nudge her to keep quiet.

Middle school didn’t stop the bullying, but it did lessen it. While Normal found her place in society, Weird could never be a part of it. He would never fit in and he found he didn’t want to either. He also found that sticking to Normal helped in his self-preservation. As long as he was with her, no one could say anything. She never let anyone. He didn’t like it one bit, having to rely on her, but he admitted that getting only dirty glares was much better than the verbal attacks. She knew he hated relying on her and feeling like a coward, but she was happy that he wasn’t suffering as much anymore. If being with her helped him then she wouldn’t let him be alone.

When high school started, things were different. No one had time to bully Weird anymore. Frankly he was glad, as it allowed him to worry about things other than what was going to jump out at him as soon as he turned the corner. Everyone was stressing out, especially Normal. Normal fell ill more often and Weird was more than happy to take care of her. Weird still hung around Normal, as was his habit, even though no one bullied him anymore. No one noticed him anymore; they didn’t glare or try to trip him. It was as though he had never existed. Weird quite enjoyed his invisible status, even if it meant sitting in a corner, in his own little world, at someone’s party. Normal was invited to a lot of them, and she always dragged Weird along for company. She was always on the fringes of the groups she was a part of and it left her feeling lonely at times. Weird sensed this and was always dragged along willingly.

She never admitted it, and she never wanted to accept it, but there were times when she wanted to blame Weird for her loneliness. Because he was always hanging around she never had any close friends. And because she wanted to make sure nothing happened to him and so had him stay within her line of sight, she was angry at herself for blaming him. This predicament, and all the stress of school, affected her health adversely. Despite Weird nursing her to health each time she broke down, Normal never recovered completely. Her guilt ate at her continuously and in the end, she was so sick she had to take a year off before college.

Weird was adamant about taking a year off too and going to college with Normal. Normal wouldn’t agree to it, telling him she’d only feel guiltier if he did.

Reluctantly Weird got himself into an art college. Their plan had been to study biology and get into genetics or microbiology. But if he was going to do this alone, he thought he might as well choose to study what he really loved. It wasn’t easy being alone all of a sudden. He had to talk to people, interact with the very species that’d made fun of him for most of his life. But he found that people were like-minded and didn’t approve of bullying others just because they were different. He found that they each had their own eccentricities and that it didn’t stop them from doing anything. It didn’t stop them from being who they were.

Weird finally felt free. Most of all he was happy. Seeing his happiness, Normal felt happy too. She started to get better. She loved to hear Weird talking about his day and what he did with his friends. She loved that he could express himself so freely in front of people, his new friends and the faculty, but most of all their parents and even her. She loved that there were people Weird didn’t hate and could talk to. She loved that there were people who didn’t make fun of his mismatched or rainbow socks, who actually appreciated them instead. Weird finally felt like he belonged.

Two sides of a coin

Normal and Weird are the same.

Who is the odd one?

Spiral Staircase

It’s a staircase for sure.

There are steps one after the other and they’re decreasing (or increasing) in height at equal decrements (or increments).

It’s definitely a spiral. I’m quite dizzy from all the circular walking.

I’ve been on this spiral staircase for a while now. A long while.

I walk endlessly, taking the odd short break.

Time is an irrelevant factor, as is direction. As variables, I have no idea of either of their values.

Sometimes I can tell. The direction I mean. Whether I’m going up or down. Most days it doesn’t matter; I just keep walking aimlessly in that same direction without being able to figure if it’s up or down. Maybe I just don’t care enough to figure if it’s up or down. Then there are those few days when it’s absolutely certain which way I’m headed. And it’s almost always most likely to be downwards.

Of course it also depends on how you look at the entire setup. In all honesty I’m the only one with the key to the giant room. Sometimes, if I’m willing, I’ll let someone else do some poking around, although it never ends well. I always end up in tears and it doesn’t look or feel like anyone cleaned the place up. It’s as though they took a pile of the mess from one side of the room to the other. I would’ve done the same anyway, just alone, with no one else’s help.

Getting back to the setup. There’s the aforementioned giant room with one key. Within it is a small room (to which the someone elses are invited for a good poke and clean up) with a view to the setup that occupies the greater remainder of the giant room. When I say giant I mean giant to the power of unimaginable vastness. A never-ending spiral staircase (the entire setup; no really that is the entire setup) floats in this interstice of a space, contorting itself, unravelling slightly, nonetheless staying a spiral, filling up the space in entirety, almost as if consuming itself.

I, but a puny little pawn, walk along this staircase, climbing step after step.

One step, two step.

Go ahead a step.

Back-up a step.

Skip a step.

Fall off the step.

Step-by-step.

Step after step.

Step, step, step.

Step, step, step, step.

Step. Step. Step.

Step.

Unfortunately when I installed the Pay-per-view, I put on a permanent zoom lens. So now if I invite someone in, they can only see a close-up of where I am standing, instead of a breath-taking whole view, of which I have no patience in describing to others. A painting is only as beautiful if it has been viewed upon carefully, as a whole and as smaller parts that have come together.

While the viewing room that saw different people invited in had only that one lens to offer, the giant room itself had two tiny windows, which couldn’t really be seen even when inside the room. But if anyone did find them and gaze into either, they’d see a lot more than through the Pay-per-view. I can’t say many have dared to opt for that option. I also can’t say that I’ve given them that option. It’s more or less a discovery on each individual’s part.

Just as walking on the spiral was a discovery for me. I hadn’t noticed it until much after feelings of love towards staircases had consumed me enough to make me want to consciously ignore the elevator. Such disdain for an elevator I’ve never felt before. Now, even though I yearn for the elevator, I can’t seem to get off the staircase. Ever since I got on, I’ve been looking for the end so I may step off.

There are days I run around, under the impression that I’ve reached the end, having apparently seen it in the distance. An illusory glance. Sometimes I turn around and walk back, having forgotten a piece of the eternal candy that I would’ve left behind on a lonesome step. That candy is the only source of energy to keep me climbing those stairs.

On more days than is usual, I slide on the banister, whooshing past. These are the days I usually fall off as well and I have to pick myself up and trudge all the way back to pick up whatever might have fallen out of my pockets (all of them being pieces of eternal candy). The picking-up-after-myself part is super hard, but I like keeping things clean and so it’s more or less a necessity. And because I like cleaning, most of the time I’m glad I picked up all the pieces till the very step I slid off of.

Sometimes, I find myself going around in circles on the same step. When I suddenly realise this and stop, I sit down to regain my bearings, but by this time I’m so confused about which direction I must’ve come from (and there are only two to choose from) I just turn around some more, slowly this time, and whichever way I’m facing I walk in the opposite direction. I don’t walk backwards. I tried it once, it didn’t end well.

But there are some days I take my time on each step and walk slowly, step by step by step. These are the days I look out at the vastness. At the nothing that surrounds the staircase. At the tiny speck of a viewing room. At the someones inside the viewing room. At the two tiny pinholes of a windows. At the multitude of anyones outside the windows. It overwhelms me. And calms me. It makes me wonder if there are more staircases out there to climb. And if I’ll ever get to climb them.

I wonder if they are all spiral.

Teeth

White teeth.

Glowing pearly white teeth.

Not encased in metal, glowing pearly white teeth.

Freed of dental structures, not encased in metal, glowing pearly white teeth.

Not tied down by rubberbands, freed of dental structures, not encased in metal, glowing pearly white teeth.

Able to bite into an apple, not tied down by rubberbands, freed of dental structures, not encased in metal, glowing pearly white teeth.

Saved from inner-lip lacerations, able to bite into an apple, not tied down by rubberbands, freed of dental structures, not encased in metal, glowing pearly white teeth.

Corrected crooked misalignments, saved from inner-lip lacerations, able to bite into an apple, not tied down by rubberbands, freed of dental structures, not encased in metal, glowing pearly white teeth.

Artificially-altered smile, corrected crooked misalignments, saved from inner-lip lacerations, able to bite into an apple, not tied down by rubberbands, freed of dental structures, not encased in metal, glowing pearly white teeth.

Antarctica

Last summer I went to Antarctica.

It was covered in ice.

White ice

Cold white ice

Cold melting white ice

Global warming was taking over.

He was blowtorching the polar ice caps.

At Antarctica, I saw pink penguins.

It was warm so they’d taken off their feathery jackets.

They were nude penguins.

Nude and pink like people who’d just sunbathed.

Penguins are cooler black and white.

The Thing

A poem from last year

Nightmare. It’s only a nightmare.

The-there’s a thing.

An odious object sitting at the foot of my bed.

An article so astronomical I can’t see behind it.

The terrifying tool sits still, while I lie quaking under the covers.

Immobile, the item seems innocuous enough.

But could I trust it?

The artefact had appeared quite abruptly, and I definitely hadn’t put it there.

Did you?

Did you dump this dubious device on my duvet?

Is it a gift?

Is this great gadget a glorious gift?

Now this is interesting.

What is this curious commodity so covered in cotton cloth?

This extremely endearing entity that draws me closer as I crawl across to the contrivance.

I opened it to find a glossy glass gizmo.

With polished planes and cool curves,

The instrument has intricacies etched on every exterior.

The insides of the implement were equally elaborate with

Serpentine strokes scratched on the surface.

This breath-taking body, manufactured of manual muscle work, how could I ever use this utensil?

I can’t.

It’s too phenomenal a form to be flawed.

This piece of work, perfect from every perspective, I plan to preserve perpetually.

So storing the stupendous stuff, I go back to sleep.

I wake to warm water, sprinkled on my idle eyes.

Fragmented figures flash from the previous night.

Dashing to the drawer I find that forged form was a

REFRIGERATOR?!

In a Pot of Bubbling Sauce - The Result of a Quick Poetic Exercise

He had been prowling the streets
The usual routine
Checking for spies
Or even traitors
But the godfather could not save him now
He was far too deep in his own pasta and meatballs
The spaghetti ropes were overcooked and falling everywhere limp
Like the clandestine antiestablishmentarian establishments
Fuck. He thought...he was stuck in a pot that he had not wanted to even step into
Magenta walls towered over him as he hoped someone would find him
Down this dark alley vertical in the ground
He looked up hearing a voice...Bharti? Was it her? Was it that no good mother of his come to rescue him everytime he couldn't solve his own problems?

An Uprooted Being

Just like plants, humans have roots too. And just like a plant's roots, human roots play an important role in our growth as individuals.

This piece stems from a common question and an attempt to understand my missing self.

"So, where are you from?"

I've been asked this question so many times in college. Everyone asks this to every other one. In a way, it's a question of curiosity. Do you fit the stereotypes that exist around your place of origin? Are you one of those nomads, meaning someone in your family is either a diplomat or serves in the armed forces? Or are you simply an NRI?

I've said different answers to different people. 

Sometimes it's just 'Delhi', assuming they're asking where my 'hometown' is, which generally translates to "Where do you end up every summer to visit family?"

Sometimes it's 'Bangalore', referring to my city of residence and where I've spent most of my life so far.

Most of the times though I end up answering with this: "I was born in Delhi, but I've never lived there. Then before I was one we moved to the States. I lived there for 7 years. After that we moved to Bangalore. And we're still here. So, you can figure out for yourself where I'm from."

There are times I go into a rambling story about my ancestors and where they're from, but that's only when people are asking for it.

Although people say it's quite clear where I'm from, all the while failing to mention the place they think so, I really don't feel the same.

In college, culture plays an important role in your work. A lot of motifs and illustrative styles emerge from the culture you would have immersed yourself into. This holds true even for patterns you weave into textiles, your choice of colours, even the look and feel of a product/piece of furniture you might create.

Culturally I've never been rooted to anything in particular. I've read about different cultures from across the world, spanning various time periods. While they're all really interesting, I didn't find myself wanting to follow any of them. I should be following my own culture, whatever that is supposed to be, but with my formative years being spent in one place and the rest of my life elsewhere, I've kind of gotten lost. Not to mention my parents are more spiritual and disciplinarian, with Western ideologies but Indian upbringing. Culture did not take up a very big part in my growing years. Maybe if I'd spent more time with my grandparents, I might have known more about 'my culture', but that's all pointless speculation.

Although I walk around like a lost soul with a part of my identity completely missing, it's not like I know nothing about my cultural ways. I just can't seem to associate myself with it. I'm not sure I ever will.

Mundu Mime

A poem I wrote for my character, which is now a mural.

Mundu Mime had no head. Well almost.
But the poor thing was almost dead.
Mundu Mime, he felt terribly stupid 
For his body was entirely crooked.
He felt so bad for his shape.
In every house, he hid behind the drapes.
The hosts, they always stared.
Poor Mundu Mime, how much he cared.

Mundu is the traditional attire for men in Kerala, India. It is a long piece of cloth that is tied around the waist in a specific manner.

5 Minutes to Signup

There are 5 minutes to signup, our chaotic, evil system of choosing a course via a website (custom built I assume).
So if this makes no sense, it's probably because I can't see what I am typing due to the darkness on campus (no one is getting up to switch on the lights for fear of not signing up on time... It's a fastest-fingers-first sort of system...) or because I am in a hurry to put everything down on this so I don't miss my course.
I am sitting in an almost empty campus save the few people from my batch all waiting restlessly to get this over with. And some people in the admin office and the security staff.
Shit I am so nervous. Almost everyone wants the same courses in the VisComm department.
My friend just told me the time... I have 3 minutes. I should go start endlessly refreshing the website...
OH MY GOD!!!!!!!
I got my courses...Screen Printing and Calligraphy. Which I should say are the most wanted courses for the workshop weeks. Oh my god!
That has got to have been the shortest and most intense signup I've ever had.
Usually I'm chilling at the p.g. in my room with music, an hour to signup.
This time it was a roller-coaster ride.
My adrenaline is still rushing...

Let me give you a brief background to what generally happens.
You access a website, login with a unique ID used for all our college official work. Then you wait, refreshing endlessly, for checkboxes to appear signifying the start of signup. Click the checkbox, hit the save button all fast enough and you will be lucky to be ensured you will get those courses. Otherwise you're stuck looking for a nice course which hasn't been filled up. And they get filled up fast. Speed of sound fast.
And that's pretty much it. Later you feel like you've just run a marathon. And then there are all the sighs of relief or disappointment.
You have tense people, restless people, excited people, people with no hope all around you before and during signup. The atmosphere is mostly thick with stress. Music doesn't help most of the time.

Yep that's signup for you.
You're in trouble if you have a slow internet connection.

Not Good

The day was bright and warm. After a lavish lunch, I went outside and sat on the porch. From afar I could see a young girl with eyes that twinkled like the glinting drops of rain, running in our huge field. She was a faerie in her pale, floaty dress and was carrying a small basket. She looked cheerful and it made me feel like a paedophile.



Made with two of my friends for an assignment in class. The original paragraph, which we had to rewrite:
It was a very good day. After a good lunch, I went outside and sat on the porch. From afar I could see a beautiful girl running in our big field. She was wearing a nice dress and was carrying a small basket. She looked very happy and it made me feel good.

Walking in the Woods

Two roads diverged into the woods.

But the right path was the one I was on.

So I ignored the two diversions on the side

And walking ahead, I went along.

Based on the poem The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost.

3-Step-Pepper-Pasta

To all my friends, who have learned to enjoy the small things of P.G. life... Because that is what dreams are made of.


Living in a Paying Guest Accommodation has it's perks.
For one you don't really have a fixed curfew. I mean we are given one, but it's not like we follow it (OK we kind of do).
Another is that you learn to cook just by tasting the food provided. You can guess all the ingredients correctly (no joke), and figure out the recipe.

I present to you, one of our findings:

3-Step-Pepper-Pasta

 

Serves: Less than the number of students accommodated

Prep Time: Half a day (maybe more)

Ingredients:

Pasta (we have macaroni here)

Ground Pepper/ Pepper Corns (we found ground pepper)

Tomato Ketchup (store bought)

Water

Preparation:

1. Pour water into a pan till about 3/4th full. Add a tablespoon of pepper. Bring to a boil. Add the pasta and cook until it is al dente, which should take roughly 10-12 minutes.
2. Strain the water into a saucepan. Add a few handfuls of ground pepper and cook till it thickens into a tomato sauce like consistency. Add the pasta. Let it soak for a few hours.
3. Strain the pasta again. Put it into a bowl and add one teaspoon of tomato ketchup. Mix well. Empty an entire bottle of ground pepper and mix well again. Serve cold in a big canister.

Bon Appetit!

Of Sisters and Sins

She's twirling her hair, not once but thrice, like in all those Hindi soap operas where they have to repeat a 'dramatic' scene thrice for effect (and exaggeration). I know she's daydreaming only because I used to do that in the 7th grade, when I had a crush on one of my classmates. The glazed eyes (because of staring into space), the hair-twirling, the readjusting her hair every second, the constant smiling when you think no one's looking.
Because no one is. Not directly anyway. I was looking from the corner of my eyes.

Yes, I was spying. But it's quite funny to see the sort of expression on her face. Of course it's embarrassing once I realise I probably made the same faces too, way back when. She, I hope, never remembers me having made those faces in the first place. She was too young to care, anyway. Even if she did notice, she would look at me weird, wondering why I was making faces at no one in particular. She specially hated the times I was staring at her, but wasn't. It was no fault of mine. My mind was just preoccupied. As is her's these days.

Unfortunately, my curiosity only increases every time I see her smiling into space.
I can't even ask her who or what (assuming it's one of those times she isn't daydreaming) she's thinking about. That would only give away the fact that I'd been staring at her, spying, in the first place. Then she'd be too conscious of the fact and never make faces again. Or trust me the little bit she does. That would be a disaster.

This piques my interest even more and I end up committing sins no sibling (younger or older) should ever commit. So horrifying they are, they cannot be named. There is also the reason that I'd be murdered in my sleep by my sister (in her dreams) if she ever found out. I know this because when I told my friend my little secret, she stared at me like a principal would stare at an 'A-student'-turned-delinquent.
With Disappointment.
(I forget to mention: My friend is the younger sibling in her family.)

Of course I feel guilty. So I just ask my sister directly instead. Which gives me no answer whatsoever. I will tell her ultimately. About the terrible sin. But maybe after she's married and lives on the other side of the world.  Besides, she's probably done the same thing while I've been away.

A Grey Space

In a black and white world,
There's a third shade grey.
A twilight zone.
Here merging thrives.
Indefinity.
Infinity.
What's the difference?
It's all colourless.
Questions of the ignorant.
They'll never know
That it's a space
Free from superstitious stares.
Free from orthodox glares.
Free from any sort of Ism.
Where democracy is not just ideal, but real.
That it's a space
Where they can run in their dreams
Because that is reality.
Where they can be whoever
And whatever, whenever
Without being eccentric.
Weird is the normal.
And everyone is normal.
That it's a space
Shunned by the fearful world
For they cannot even begin to understand it
Unless they enter it themselves.
Immerse themselves in the grey
They're afraid to experience.
Let it wash over them
To help them see beauty in difference.
That it's a space
Where I can be I
And You can be You
And no one can control Us
When we fight for our beliefs
For we wear no shackles
We have no bounds.
The skies are not the limits.
Neither is infinity.

That it's a grey space,
Full of colour.

The Story Of Part Of His Life

I mean no disrespect to anyone. This is just a story. Plainly and simply a story.
Credits to everyone who helped on the sculpture and story of Cancer-man and his 'muse'.

Cancer-man was not always Cancer-man.
He hadn't always had cancerous lumps all over his body.
He hadn't always been cracked up and weak.
He hadn't always been morose and so deathly brown and still.
He hadn't always been sitting in the most uncomfortable position possible.
To him uncomfortable was now comfortable.

John Doe a.k.a. Not-Atul a.k.a. Cancer-man, had been a basketball player, with big-ass muscles. He was most proud of his jersey, which had to be renamed after his unfortunate misfortune.
He was the best player on his college team. He could shoot hoops, dunk, slam dunk, dribble (running around the court like crazy with a ball) and of course, take rebounds.
He loved the game with all his heart.
He was iron stuck to a magnet.
But he loved the chicks that came with the stardom even more.

So it was a big blow when he found out he had cancerous lumps all over his body. He tried chemotherapy, radiation, ayurveda, all sorts of surgeries and treatments.
And while it may have reduced during treatment, the cancer came back immediately after.
Slowly it would grow, eating him, regenerating eternally, till he could bear it no more.
Till he could no longer ignore the name that his jersey now had printed on.

He quit basketball.
In a few months, he quit college, for although the jersey was locked in his cupboard, the memories in his head, and everyone else's, were not.
A few weeks later he quit life. The jersey was still in his cupboard. He couldn't bring himself to burn it or throw it or flush it down the toilet, because of his pride, his pride and the fact that he didn't want a clogged drain.
He decided to retry life when he later got an epiphany and wore the jersey for the rest of his cancerous life. He didn't have to see his nickname, the visual proof, anymore. All the mirrors in the house were removed and he made sure never to turn around near one.

But as he got weaker he got more uncomfortable and more lumpy. He couldn't sit anyway he wanted.
When his friends came to visit, they'd find him in the most oddest of positions. They knew it was uncomfortable only because they'd tried to sit that way at their homes.
His expression became constant - a morose, distant look. His friends at first thought he was pouting, but they knew two seconds later that he wasn't. Soon even the familiar faces he saw stopped coming into his room. Now he was alone.
Until the day he met her.

Her, whose story he (nor I, sadly) does not know...