Wednesday, November 26, 2008

So it is

I wish there was some rule book for intimacy. A guideline that told you what and what not. A map to guide you while you walk your way in and around your own and your significant other's heart. It's easy to blame it on love. The same way it's easy to be a 2-year-old and be unable to colour between the lines.

And so it is
Just like you said it would be
Life goes easy on me
Most of the time

I wonder if I've ever been there - on the top of a pyramid and be reaching to that perfect Northern star in a symmetrical line. Isn't that how the Egyptians made their peaked triangular towers? Their need for perfection and allignement to pay allegiance to their Kings reflected in their architecture of their tombs. Have I been in love so deep to endure the pain of perfection? My galaxy is splashed all across my cieling and I still can't touch the stars.

And so it is
The shorter story
No love, no glory
No hero in her sky

I have been in love, I think. I've wanted to breathe and been left breathless many times. I have felt the touch, the race in the heart, the blood boil and the flush in the cheeks. Red's been a favourite colour and 2 the perfect number. To gaze endlessly at filgree cups and wonder. I have been a victim of beauty. When nothing else - not a word, or a sigh; a sight or a flicker looked as timeless as him.

I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes...

A lucid interval - when time stands still. Does it exist? Can it linger? Will it stay? Forever? Never ending? Do I still believe in fairytales? Does the butterfly really die in seven days? Do hearts really break? Does sleeping beauty fall asleep again? The sky, Earth, wind, water and time doesn't really stand still does it? We live not forever do we? Love doesn't endure life does it?

And so it is
Just like you said it should be
We'll both forget the breeze
Most of the time

I swim. When my heart breaks and when he leaves and walks out the door. If it's jarred, he tears it apart. If it's locked, he breaks it down. But if it's open, he doesn't even make a sound. And then there is the flood of water through that door and I must swim if I don't want to drown. I hold down till I can and then I push and fight myself to the surface. At the end of it, the tears that never came fills my world and all I can see for miles are the tears that drowned me all this while. I think my heart stops beating for a while. But I just don't forget to swim each time. I survive and reach the shore somehow - each time.

And so it is
The colder water
The blower's daughter
The pupil in denial

It's the hate, it's the cynicism. It's what they call being practical and it's what Freud called a super-ego. I call it freedom. I have this fondness for birds. I have this belief that if I really want to, really really put my mind to it - then I can fly. Meet the skies, let it escape beneath my wings and talk to the sky - face on. But it's only when I'm asleep and dreaming. Most of the times, I suffer from insomnia.

Did I say that I loathe you?
Did I say that I want to?
Leave it all behind?

Confessedly, I am a relentless romantic. I have faith and my heart never leaves my sleeve. I wonder when it'll come back to me, but it rarely ever does. I believe in fairies, I do know how to fly. Truth is I don't swim too well and don't mind drowing every now and then. The door is always open and I think I must've lost the key or broken the lock in some era. I do have a knack for perfection and I must've been an Egyptian slave who built that pyramid stone by stone. If only I knew how to quit 'You', I wouldn't be a word or a sigh.

I can't take my mind off of you
I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind off of you
I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind...My mind...
'Til I find somebody new

(lyrics interspersed 'Blower's Daughter' by Damien Rice)

Friday, November 14, 2008

Finish Line

You are a champion
When you ran
The ground shook
The skies parted
And mere mortals looked up
Wrapped with a wreath of flowers on your back
When you came to meet me in the winner’s circle

Friday, November 07, 2008


From the corners of memory
erupted a faint image
words, coffee mugs, sanitiser, daisies
orange, rum balls, mud bucket, chistle and a pick
The walking stick, now a constant companion
Faint blue kurta pyjama - his uniform
Nani's hand knit brown cable wool
Scrawny, tired, but firm hands
Perfect grip..
Feet in synchornised strut
through Snow View Cottage towards
the meandering cobbled paths and back
Haystack brooms, pinewoood smell.
In the evening - chestnut chessboard and plum jam.
Always on the breath - the stale smell of Marbolos
Ashtrays greyed
Faded and ashen with the smoke
Now - just a memory.
Makes me full again.
Favourite bedtime story and
written verse on scattered paper
remains yellowing in a closet somewhere
Yet he is everywhere.