The Naked Lady and How We Looked Away

The empty greens of the city park, 

Tremble seeing shadows emerge from dark. 

There lies a truth, thick with disdain, 

Now writhing in bottomless pain. 

 

Red bindi between those eyes, 

Hollowed spirit burnt by cries. 

Barbaric hands, tainted with deceit, 

Shred her saree to an acidic beat. 

They come shameless as night, 

Soaked in power’s greedy blight. 

Their fists snuff out the light, 

As dead bodies tremble with fright. 

Their laughter mocks the silent screams 

Of lives denigrated, torn at the seams. 

Bodies bruised, souls bled. 

Freedom crushed beneath bully’s tread. 

The dead poet squirms in his grave, 

Couldn’t a single of his dignity save. 

The homeless Baul wanders away, 

His songs turned impotent yesterday. 

No justice here, only ceaseless cries, 

Earth parched dry by weeping eyes. 

The State, a fortress of despair, 

Where mercy’s voice hangs mid-air. 

Are those living men who stand and stare? 

Hypnotised as if by brutality’s naked flare. 

Regime in and regime out, 

Ugly truth prevails, have no doubt. 

Tumultuous war of words breaks out on X, 

Their guiltless souls appear through cracks. 

When this fool looked up from her phone, 

Plunderers left behind decimated pride to mourn. 

You can look away, trust me I tried, 

The angst within not yet dried. 

Each time I imagine rushing in with aid, 

Annual bonus yanks at me, ghost of values fade.

The Wandering Songs

Rhythm resounds through echoes Our universes dance in bliss Swirling across skies is solitude As we silently live a song’s prelude. World rejoices the soulful music Play my favourite beat, Dear Heart You and I can blend in a note Welcoming the cosmos as we float. Our shadows tenderly draw close Where our breaths smile at each other Tiptoeing between here and heaven Moments pray for this unknown union. Darkness cascade through the tresses A caravan of dreams lights my eyes One moment away from your story We awaken in the moonlight of glory.

Tiny Love Story

You still don’t get it, do you? How I live a love story with you in it. Well, I didn’t need you to know what love is, yet, on a velvet blue night, I catch myself thinking about the possibilities that might emerge had you known. The brief magic that connected us, you might have long forgotten; I carry it in my memory like a piece of potpourri. 

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I sit there holding your thoughts

Trying to hear what shadows whisper

Eyes heavy with blissful stupor 

I tip toe through the breeze.

Come here, you foolish song

Tell me my love is not wrong.

Your dreams caress me gently

Like the Moon wooing the galaxy.

Far across the desert

Lines blur to become one

The birds wait patiently alert 

As the clouds melt the Sun.

I wander through your footprints

Little did you smile at my hints 

Unsaid stories we did share

Where time ends, meet me there.

Drops of dew and wild tear 

Your intoxication chases away fear

Every heart beats with desire 

Live a little, burn like fire. 

- Sutapa Kar 

An Incomplete Love Story?

I sit to write about love

And stare at static photographs 

Are those inspiration enough?

My eyes have a failed story of bluff.

He who shall never know the truth 

Carelessly believes the lies of youth

Call out his name, I cannot 

The lost letter will reach the destined spot.

I might wake up from slumber 

To realise the kiss was a blunder

A life-like dream I pray this is

Few pieces of the tale are his.

Buried under tears of forgiveness

Lie the prayers to catch us

Ink pierces through the sheets

As journey falls behind the streets.

Distances we have travelled

Unknowingly to meet each other 

I went searching for meaning 

To find myself circling your being.

When the heaven and earth intertwine

They find their abode in you 

I have nowhere to go 

To you I lost my wins.

I Miss Me

 

There she stands, behind the veil, quieter than her shadow

Watching the end walk away into the twilight horizon.

The day announces reality to be a grey pretense

As the meaningless night descends on my window.

 

She loves the hide and seek as I grow tired

Every dream abandoned by the bed-side table.

Like the broken promises that lit the false sky

I have failed myself many times over.

 

My mute voice begs to call her one last time

To lose myself just one more time in her fragrance.

The sparkling laughter refuses to acknowledge my today

My thirst for an ounce of faith vanishes unrequited.

 

She was the hero of my story You forgot to narrate

The storm strangled like the brown letters under the pillow.

The mirror mocks at my reflection that is You

As I wait to be abandoned by a flood of memories.

 

Her voice flows through my veins as a map

Of the journeys I pretended to have forgotten.

Happiness, as it is, seldom looks different

This time she shall not fool me into servitude.

 

The clocks mutters under its breath

How time has conned us with a lie.

On the edge of submission I attempt one last time

Waiting for my truth to atone the frivolity of defeat.

Who says flight of freedom is what everyone seeks?

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's Painstakingly Good!!

I cracked the 'Dard' code. No doubt Hindi movies pay regular tribute to the D-word. If you do not know what Dard means, it's the lyrical Hindi equivalent of 'Pain', silly! And why am I romanticising pain? For all its worth, pain can lay grounds for choice of reactions. Creative genius to tsunami of compassion to apathetic cruelty, pain has mothered these and many more. More reason for the movies to weave eloquence on where pain hits and does what thereafter. To back my argument, I am the living testimonial. Many are aware that I suffer from one of the base models of auto-immune diseases, Rheumatoid Arthritis. Not grand nor glamorous like its other cousins. By now, even the worst math minds would have figured, why all the pain similes? And when it arrives, all the body can sing is 'Tumse miley dil mein uthey dard karaara...". Ouch! This Dard is Karaara. Karaara = Crisp. Indeed, crisp it is!

After a year of 'near no-show', the sly trickster is back. Just when I started dreaming about wearing the tiny skirt and heading to the tennis court to learn the game (one of my many sapney/dreams), I woke up with a rude jolt of severe pain. As if someone drilled through my shoulders and to sweeten the revenge, glued the finger joints to form perfect straight lines. There I was, a few mornings back, lying immobile on the bed, conjuring ways to break the news to my mother, who like all mothers, was expected to break down/yell/cry/go numb. But before she resorted to one of the above, she kindly agreed to sit me and massage some movement back in my hands. Thank god for parents!

As my 'Shani-tastic' luck would have it, assignments for the mysterious degree I enrolled a few months back stared back from the study table. They demanded immediate action to avoid a year's loss. Irony, right? More so when the same family that would consider you a demi-God should you have more than a couple of university degrees, derided me for the 'irresponsible' decision to opt for something that required scribbling epic-length answers. Nearly 120 questions to go! Without the aid of the carbonated drink that preaches, 'Darr Ke Aage Jeet Hai', I threw caution to the wind, braved the blazing Sun and finally, purchased two pens (yes, yes, till now I did not have a decent pen to attempt my assignments). Armed with the arsenal, two pain-killers (they kill the stomach and liver too), a set of agonising parents and a decent air conditioner, I commenced the trek towards the academic summit. The climb is on, though the torment grows. 

This is a real-time, fuelled-by-pain post by the way, and I would like to garner as much sympathy as possible. Well, no, not really. Those who know me, can vouch for my high pain threshold and equally heightened sense of control. I would die a hundred times over if anyone would find me in my vulnerable moments. And this is not a virtue, I realised with each greying hair. Mastering the art of concealing debilities can be one of the initial triggers of RA. You are human and not Sunny Deol, for whatever's sake! Nowadays I have to tutor myself to come to terms with human frailties. Back to the tale, my next move was to chisel my badminton skills. Maybe this was another denial move by the brain. There's not much left to imagination now on what might have transpired, is there? Here's another secret I unearthed. The joints do relax after all the activity to shut down with faster pace and heightened pain to say the least. I had lost the game, set, match and I refused to believe it. And I am not referring to the on-court game. 

That night and nights after, writhing in excruciating stiffness and pain (Bollywood may call it "bicchhoo ke Dank jaisa dard" or something) all I could manage was to distance myself from the bodily afflictions (thanks to a mystic and his processes). These are also the moments when you decode soul-crushing truths. One was - Sleep is Judas or Brutus or Ponty Chaddha's brother (a turncoat can come in various avatars). It's four days now and that bloody scamster eludes my 'oh-so-lovely' doe-shaped eyes. 

Touched your soul? Eyes getting misty or you thrilled reading about your mortal enemy's torment? Whatever be your reaction, know there would be many more episodes of similar or worse collapses, yet this is not hopeless. Auto-immune diseases are ominous, yes, they sneak up unannounced, they can alter lives. But don’t so many other phenomena have the same effect? Romance, lies, lottery wins, Donald Trump, or say a national award winning film performance by a certain Khan chacha? The last one is a myth, I agree. 

Regular health checks, careful diet, active lifestyle and a calm mind, these can be my friends in this lifelong tryst with RA. I have no way out, so rather face it and ride it. By the way, lest I forget, this post was also birthed by the constant pain. Wonder if this is what they call 'meetha dard'? Or does that mean something completely different? What does Mr. Akhtar have to say? 

Often as the night lands, I marvel at the juxtaposition of our insignificance in this whole cosmos vis-a-vis the objectivity of our personal experiences, say bodily discomfort. There are no conclusions to arrive at, just the ingredients for stories and books and poems and research in quantum physics and on rare occasions, a humdrum post such as this. 

After this copious outpouring, creaky fingers notwithstanding, I finally managed to put together the Dard playlist for 'those uncomfortable moments' and to start with is 'Dard-e-Disco' for the record limps in and out of the car, or 'Dard-e-dil dar-de jigar' when opening a bottle is a medal-winning feat. There are many more I would like to enthral you with, yet the fingers beg for mercy and I need to call it a day. 

For all those who might have no inkling, RA-induced joint pain, if not worse, is similar to what you experience, when you catch the love of your life making out with your bestie in the backseat of the car you surprised him/her with on the eve of your engagement. For those who fathom it all, thanks for your patience, compassion and helping hand to bring the jar cookies from the top shelf. 

P.S - I do not mind sympathy 'likes'.

Pretty Lies

 

Facts fight the lies they chose as their King

Crown adorns the heads that praises sing.

They know not the language of toil

Blind egos blight the level playing soil.

 

Soulless laughter that deserves no audience

Love they receive can trounce any conscience

The 9 to 5 man shudders at the realization

His precious values are irrelevant in Banana Nation.

 

Acrid air chokes the lungs and fuels the pocket

This is where the Zombies outrun the prophet.

A news a day to toy with our time

To not be a brown-nose is the crime.

 

The race is on, the mind is gone

Rats fight the battle; the war long won.

The battered one walk back to the cages

Maps to freedom were on the lost pages.

 

Ashen faces that fail to justify the end

Do not look for excuse to stab your friend.

Sky accepts defeat, it has nowhere to hide

Cloud smirks, it now knows to take a side.

 

The lost bird cannot return home

My God seeks a new tomb.

The masks that hid the pretty lies

Endure ignominy as cruelty flies.

 

The pauper poet tears sheet after sheet

Of ballets on Romeos forlorn on love street.

Destinations merge and lose their address

Anchorless lust for everything survives, nonetheless.

All For You

Specks of dust on my window,

Laugh as I arrange secrets in a row.

A few poems sit idle soaking in Sun,

The breeze wrote flirty letters for fun.

Dreams, seldom real yet come true

A distant island harbours my due.

A restlessness floats around

It's my story that your words sound.

Your habits paint with colours

Sky starts a song for parched flowers.

The grey clouds throw tantrums

Street promises a song on our terms.

I can be your tale, an enigma, a tear

Myriad forms happy to share.

Make me a myth with one embrace

Together the glaciar we chase.

Those nicknames, oh so familiar

Drenched in an intoxicant rare.

Completed verses make no sense

Galaxies become one with that one Yes.

- Sutapa Kar

Here’s A Gift

Do you remember the ‘standard’, pink, floral, gift-wrapping paper used in the 80s and 90s? One that was used across the country for all sorts of gifts, no difference there. You may be moneyed or not, your gift may be worth a few thousand, the wrap paper was the same. It was sort of an equalizer (of course driven primarily by lack of options).

 

Today, after a day ‘dedicated’ at the feet of corporate fiefdom, the fatigued mind finds its way back to memories. Recall all the birthday and wedding parties from those decades when mountains of pink gifts would adorn the room. I tried finding a picture on the great G. Nothing! If you happen to come across one, and you have my number, do share.

 

Recollection is funny business. What was mundane then is recreated with a touch (or more) of magic now. As if some fairy dust was sprinkled on that memory. Back in the days when I was compelled to tuck the gift box in one such sheet, I would squirm and wish for things to change, wishing for a gift-wrapping revolution almost. Now that, variety of options have landed, the mind plays tricks and induces nostalgia.

 

Lack of options, closed economy, small-town sleepiness, or whatever you may choose to term it, the basic and simple did exude a class of their own. They were neat, no-nonsense, served the purpose and taught us a way of life deeply embedded in the philosophy of acknowledging, ‘Enough’. Now, chic, hyper-consumerism drives our lives. Not getting in the merit of this or that. Yet, the era of Limits is, more often than not, romanticized. Wonder why? Does the human mind like glorifying the struggles? Nights spent counting pennies and saving for the rainy day? Who is to say?

 

As we moved from ‘Hum Ne Ghar Chhoda Hai’, to ‘Kabootar Jaa Jaa Jaa’, to ‘Dekha Hai Pehli Baar’, to ‘Tujhe Dekha Toh Yeh Jana Sanam’, the boyfriends and girlfriends were spoilt for choice. The world of wrapping paper was hit by Liberalism. There were the shiny, slippery ones, the pastel ones, the cute ones, or the transparent ones. The pink, floral sheets were relegated to the back shelves and soon to oblivion. Like all else, I was drawn to the dazzle of the neo-wrappers, so much so that I was embarrassed to hand a gift to a friend as it was covered by the Plain Jane pink paper. Well, we are not always proud of our teenage years, are we? Silly years!

 

We all experience flashes from the past, don’t we? Yours would vary from mine. That’s plausible. Where we all converge is the experience of journeying back in time and back and the resulting reverberations. Yes, there is cringeworthy stuff too (we can share notes in person!) and there are these archetypal (or everyday) episodes that elicit a chain of memories and unanswered wishes.

 

As the winter night deepens, I curl up in my grand-dad’s cushy chair, imagining the holiday gifts I may receive. Maybe one of those would be my favourite book, neatly packed in that gift wrap we lost to changing trends. Oh, all our wishful attempts at reminiscing about the past! We are creatures of Hope, you see!

The Grand Story of Grand Parents – Part 1

 

Yesterday, my grandmother’s framed photo fell from the wall it adorned. Yesterday, I watched an Instagram Reel that depicted a ‘dream come true’ event for a young lady who took her grandfather on his first-ever airplane journey. It feels like yesterday that the inevitable truth of life, death, snatched away my beloved grandparents.

 

Nani-Nana, Dadi-Dada/Dadu, as we fondly call our grandmas and grandpas in India (pardon my ignorance around all the names used in different Indian languages to address them), they were my ‘comfort relations’, if there was such a thing. Rebuked by parents? Take your grievance to the grandparents and rest assured, dear parents are in for a piece of age-old wisdom on how to raise children! Mom used the cane? Oh well, that’s like hitting the granny jackpot! Wail with all the lung power, shed the fattest drops of tears and you are in for the day of your life! You name anything, and you get it as a balm for the corporal punishment. The culprit parent may hold the grudge against you and avenge himself/herself and that’s a story for another day.

 

I was a strange kid, at least I would like to think I was. A weird mix of introverted emotions and extroverted exuberance, most wouldn’t quite understand what I was like. The pseudo-mysterious personality was for the one and only time, deciphered by my ‘Dida’ (Bangla for Nani for the uninitiated). She was this uber awesome lady, graceful, kind, empathetic, with this winner smile, shy demeanor, and the wisdom of a thousand ascetics. Yes, you can argue, this adulation is fueled by my evergreen, constant love, and devotion for her, yet the adjectives I choose emerge from a study of past events vis-à-vis the value system we are raised in, the world we live in. I was and still am a fan of this lady, who wouldn’t blink twice before sharing her lunch or dinner with an outsider who may reach her door. If patience would walk the earth in human form, she/he would come a distant second to my Nani. Hours, days, months, and years of embracing my tantrums and demands and those of others around her and never for a nano second uttering a harsh word. All of us, sometimes or the other and some more regularly than others, indulge in life hacks like gossiping and ranting. My Dida is the only one I know, who never ever spoke ill about anyone (in seriousness or jest), that too when she was gifted with this sharp wit and humour.

 

From Nanaji’s modest pension, after running the household expenses, she always had some pennies for this granddaughter, who loved the yellow vanilla cake from the local bakery. For every small win at school or just because she thought I looked pretty in a dress, I would get a box of colour pencils or, hold your breath, lipstick! My mother was worried sick that Nana and Nani would splurge everything on this hyper child and may even spoil her. Yet, over the two decades of my life with her, Dida walked the talk, or should I say, she seldom lectured and only led by example; words and gestures that were intrinsic to her being and always organic.

 

Circling back to demystifying my strangeness, my grandma sensed what I was. She took that secret with her, and I am averse to tom-tomming about it now! The fact that she knew me better than I would ever guess my true nature, was the magnetic pull I felt. She shielded me and at the same time taught me to be brave. One need not be the loudest to shine. It is the purity of our intentions and transparency of our actions that illuminates the world around us, makes it breathable and worth a second glance.

 

Faith can move mountains. I have seen it happen despite my story not having the ‘happily ever after’ ending. Nani was diagnosed with cancer; doctors ruled out any form of surgery or chemotherapy given her existing medical history. Each morsel of food or a spoonful of water that went in would regurgitate with the might of Thor. It was in plain terms, horrific and shattered all of us, except the sufferer. Nani, in all her innocent glory, remained a steadfast believer in what one famous astrologer told her several decades ago that she would never get this disease, ever. So, this lady rallied on for years and her unflinching faith somehow found a way to overpower the deadly cells. Alternative medicines, that were not common then, found their way to her and held her steady for several years, until we hit the roadblock of a kind that proved insurmountable; medical negligence. Well, let’s park that for a different platform and debate.

 

Why am I writing all this, sharing bits of my broken heart as I try to fight the tears all this while? I do not know. Perhaps it was the falling photo combined with the video that sent me on an overwhelming emotional tide and I wouldn’t like to connect all this with ‘Ekta Kapoor’ style dots. Or maybe, it was after several years that I had gathered the courage to hold her photo so close and looked at her pristine face. I was still a student when she moved on, I did not have a salary to take her on an airplane and go visit her hometown in Tripura. I knew she longed to meet her kith and kin (could I get any more old-school?) because I grew up listening to the stories of how, after being married off at a young age, she only visited her father once after. I wasn’t equipped to fill her life with material purchases as any able grandchild would do. All that I could manage were letters that I wrote to her (you remember postcards and inland letters?) narrating stories of hostel life and college rigmarole, how I was practicing, day and night, the miniscule role of a shadow in my college play, my struggle with Tori-Tinda and similar Delhi vegetables. In reply, she would write simple lines blessing me and encouraging me to live my life my way and enjoy what the world had to offer. Profound in the most effortless manner! That was my granny.

 

The last thing I would like to do is project the missing pieces of my life on to you, who is painstakingly reading this. No, I do not envy you as you cuddle up to your grandparents or touch their feet to seek blessing. All that I wish for is that one glimpse of the lady who loved me unconditionally enough to keep me at bay as she breathed her last breath, to untie, one more time, the knot at the end of her saree’s pallu that hid the notes for me, to feel her fingers run through my hair night long as I rest it up. I admit, I do feel the pangs of envy at times.

 

This evening, I repaired the frame, and she is back up on the wall, smiling benevolently at all of us. For all those who are lucky still to have their grandparents, love these oldies and soak in all their rock-solid vibes and wisdom. I may commit blasphemy, yet I am compelled to state that parents can learn a lesson or two about untainted love from grandparents.

 

Once more, the dog-eared letters are neatly folded back and returned to the old jewellery box. I stopped waiting for someone to buy me a box of colour pencils or a red lipstick a long time ago…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Almirah

Maa’s almirah has a magical hold over me. Since the time, I could differentiate between a chair and a sofa, a chance glimpse inside that storage space was enough to sweeten the day for me.

 

The sentiment hasn’t changed much over the decades, despite the almirah shape shifting a couple of times. As a child, every saree, each piece of jewellery, a random letter, or that yellowing picture, was like a revelation, better still, a discovery that promised to explain the mysteries of adulthood. The almirah, like rest of the ‘grown-up’ world was out of bounds for us, the sisters. As the more curious one, who had a propensity for flouting rules and getting into trouble (still do), I tried all the tricks a 4-year-old could conjure to open the locked doors. And one day! My efforts came to fruition.

 

The enchanting realm was thrown wide open. The silks and handlooms and the functional chiffons, all neatly arranged, akin to Maa’s general disposition. We were a middle-class household, still am. That too, one in a far-flung corner of the country. Fancy and expensive labels were a rarity. Yet my parents mastered the art of cherishing and preserving simple and aesthetic objects, be it the china tea set with Kashmiri motifs or the white chiffon saree with mauve flowers. As I revisit those memories while penning this, I am transported to an idyllic world. Who says utopia is a lie?

 

They say, episodic memories are autobiographical memories of specific past events. These are the memories that brain creates by integrating smell with information of space and time. Mine triggers the famous, ‘Proust Effect’ too. Certain fragrances, smells, however faint they may be, carry me to the times I spent secretly admiring Maa’s penchant for tucking natural fresheners between the layers of clothes or inside the locker. Edgy camphor, proud rose, tangy citronella, non-nonsense neem, the odd bay leaf, speck of sandalwood powder, adorned Maa’s almirah long before potpourri started trending. The combination of natural essence with the innate smell of zari threads, silk and linen fashioned an odd kind of assurance that would soothe an otherwise effervescent me.

 

I would not know if anyone who is reading this shares this sentiment or has a similar memory. Yet I am sure there must be those sights and smells that trigger time travel to your favourite season, a special holiday or a birthday. Those that reconnect us to the familiarity we shared with our parents and grand-parents and lost it along with our childhood.

 

Today, Maa is no more young and needs breaks to ease the nagging back pain as she tidies her near perfect almirah. I gaze spellbound yet again.

Mother of All or None?

 

SHE arrives and so have they

The drums roll, the conch blows

Multitude take a solemn bow

Incense announces autumn is here.

 

There SHE stands tall on faith’s dais

The clay eyes still and silent

Life evokes colourful prayers

For those who survived another day.

 

Mothers all around seek answer

The question plagues their soul like cancer

Each breath is a burden of their pain

The price of a smile is not lost in vain.

 

Hollow heart hides the little teardrop

Million faces and not one that is her son

She narrates his tale to the vacant chair

A hint of jealousy glistens in Devi’s visage.

 

Amber is the colour of this season

Salutations for Goddess echo through her courtyard

Drums beat faster, he dances in gay abandon

Guilty each moment of a debt unpaid to the only one.

 

Deity is the same, prayers have altered

Bangles chime the furtive love stories

Let it rain she orders her quivering lips

Rights vermillion bestow, his death strips.

 

Lotus after lotus scrambles to adorn Her divinity

Each dream leaves my mother’ sleep empty

Agony would be music if her prayers could be sung

Peace is unfaithful, a secret inked in Durga’s third eye.

 

- Sutapa Kar

The Story They Chose

The star that smiles at me

Do you happen to know her?

Birds fly into the horizon

Did they carry my secret?

 

That I know you breathe the same air

Though a million miles afar

The dewdrop is back on the leaf

We shall unite beyond the grief.

 

Time and space unaware of the desire

To blend in the midnight sapphire

You hum the song echoing through valley

Let’s piece our stories, shall we?

 

A familiar fragrance tells me again

This is my heaven this is my redemption

Parched, the ocean in my eyes prays

Your being is the only truth that stays.

 

I walk towards the familiar deity

To find myself surrender to the affinity

The smile is the sky above

I reside in the limits of your love.

 

Between the Moon and Sun

You are the debt I yearn

Each moment alive with your light

I live a lifetime for that lone sight.

 

I was darkness’ beloved

My loneliness they disapproved

Faith heals those buried in blame

The sand tells me you wrote my name.

 

Inching towards the other

No promise to be together

Gods descend to bless the heart

Fulfilled is the love with unfinished start.

- Sutapa Kar

Ode to a Life Shattered a Million Times Over

 

Unsung Tale of Love

 

When the noise ebbed, we met

There is a piece of my heart I left

Rain drops decorated the window

Smiled back at us, the hill and meadow.

 

The dusty terrain was yet to unfold

Eternity lingers in the moment they behold

Unspoken promises they know will unravel

Journey not to end and yet they travel.

 

No poet discovers words for their pain

The corner table awaits the lovers in vain

Lamps cast jaded replicas on wet street

Lone shadows keep the end discrete.

 

Letter after letter we immersed in our longing

Bullets and books and the telephone ringing

How we met is the crowd’s favourite

Why tell them about the separation so exquisite?

 

Like the clouds roll over the grey sky

Choices long defeated memories of that July

Rain-soaked nights dare them to dream

Once again, her aroma bathes him.

When They Thought They Knew Better?

 

Week Sneak Peek

 

Let us be happy, let us jump with joy

You met your weight goals with decaf latte and soy.

 

The weekend is here and so is the virus

You ought to be funny if your name is Cyrus.

 

A couple of months from the hospital to hotel

Friday night awakens the infidel.

 

Paper boats are ready, so are the fritters

A drop of rain in my cup to wash away Monday jitters.

 

The heady reading on Alpha, beta, Omega and Sigma

Still no answers to why I may be an enigma.

 

The shoes have holes from the 10k steps of sweat

She looks within to plan a day of no regret.

 

Music resonates across the story of our lives

Resigned to judgement is the man with two wives.

 

Enough with the writer’s attempt at poetry

Saturday is a tale of dusting and laundry.

Unanswered Possibilities

 

Will you wake me up in my dream?

Will I know the song to sing along?

Can you do the twirl for me?

I know not as the echo loses its voice.

 

Will my eyes guess the secret on my lips?

Will the clock time us out before eternity?

Who looks from the green window?

The mid-day Sun casts no shadow of her.

 

Will the Moon remember the dead star?

Will blood lose to sweat?

Should the curious birth a new unknown?

The camera seeks imperfections.

 

Will passion answer your quest?

Will the years shorten my wait?

Does he befriend the fallen leaves?

The village temple pays homage to faith.

 

Will the curry turn a blind eye?

Will hunger find no takers?

Why did I drink away the questions?

Slurred memories have devoured the rain.

 

***

We, The Ones Born in 80s

If you are a 1980's child, you may know what I mean when I say that the 80’s kid is the rope in an eternal Tug of War.

Born in the decade that witnessed some socio-economic and cultural shifts of epic proportions, be it rise of capitalism, fall of the Berlin Wall, advent of cable TV and MTV, blazers with shoulder pads, baggy sweaters, neon makeup, Madonna (the pop music icon), 80’s set the pace at which world would change in the next 30 years. History has given us ample instances of how a revolution or friction impacts those born in such times.

 

So here we are, the generation that welcomed cable television in our homes, watched movies on the VCR or VCP (more popular in India), styled our hair in big curls, reserved afternoons for biking through dusty trails or baking our skin in the sun and grime with our friends, picking adult gasps and horror every time a world leader/icon would be assassinated in some part of the planet. Those were tumultuous times too and now that I see the stats, those years had lots of human blood strewn all over. But enough with the dark blasts from the past.

 

One in the 80s had the best seat to watch the world and the human race make its way through some Byzantine transformations. That would partially answer the constant state of confusion and self-exploration that our generation consistently experienced. We grew up with the belief that we are here to herald a new dawn of human civilisation. All the restless energy, the evergreen thirst for material acquisitions you witness today took baby steps in the Eighties. We were bedazzled by the Big C. For the pervs, I meant Capitalism. And yes, ‘bedazzling’ everything was trending.

 

The young and hungry then, the likes of Steve Jobs, took one giant technology leap after the other and raised the bar for all those who followed in the next decades. Oh yes, the ‘Yuppies’ were far cooler than any of the young millennials. Well, wait, you do not use the word ‘cool’ anymore? Too bad. It was cool slang anyway.

 

From portable music in the form of Walkman to wireless telephones, the 80s created the blueprint for what is to come. And boy! Didn’t it all feel surreal? As one in awe of the television, in India, it translated into being glued to all the mythology shows on weekends and if lucky, catch glimpses of Hindi film song shows. The seedy TV screen was like a magic box and promised me a life full of possibilities. If we could shove the world inside a box, wonder what we could achieve stepping out of the box. Arnold to mullet craze to the onslaught of AIDS, variety was the essence of life, the good, the bad or the ugly.

 

In our 30’s now, we, the 80-borns, find ourselves in a peculiar juxtaposition yet again. Yes, we were always in the eye of the storm and that’s why we are responsible for a myriad of innovations and out of the box wonders. Yet, the mature adult now wants to take it easy. We ushered civilisation into a world of seamless connectivity via the world wide web, yes, but we also celebrated collective human efforts. We attended protests and rock concerts; we knew the value of bonding in person, rubbing shoulders or hugging out differences. I am disconcerted by the growing acceptance of everything virtual. A ‘like’ and a click to express our participation? Do they even qualify? Who knows it better than the neon-loving, 80’s beauty? The disquiet, caused by the disruption (another millennial slang) puts us again in the churn and grind routine.

 

Can the Walkman generation, walk alongside the Instagram and Twitter influencers without being consumed by an existential angst and continue to be relevant?