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…