I brought in life
Wrapped it in shade
Till life did actually germinate.
I now tear the covers a little,
Let life see the sun of twilight
Till it is ignorant (of fears), like a child.
I shall talk of longing
For sunlight it shall see soon
See light, till pansies bloom./
I would dance, laugh, cry, swirl, liberate, enslave, feel alive and die inside to pop, EDM’s, folks, classics, jazz, R&Bs, et al.
But when you ask me to sing darling, I would open my mouth to a lullaby, to speak to your heart, to hush it down. (It stays a child, forever).
I have been travelling for way too long. I am lost, for sure.(Grateful to know that at least, since certainties are a blessing). And, I am a bad driver, for I often ignore every sign(board) and help(line) that comes my way. But mostly I drive in the dark (and towards it), drunk.
I tried finding you in compositions;
-Of Texts, both sacred and psychological (Together, they told me to announce my guilt);
-Of music, both psalmic and rock (I couldn’t but choose between JugniJi and Hallelujah);
-Of water, both pure and impure (Winters are on, so my spirit froze anyhow);
-Of winds, both strong and weak (They mould snow out-of-shape);
-Of contemplation, both confronted and avoided (But I broke down at five in the morning yesterday, after a sound sleep).
I think you find beauty in staying far and giving way, like the sun. But I want to burn now.
Fingers point out at me, when I speak of the ways of winds, tides and stars (black holes too, sometimes).
Fingers point out at me when I speak.
(When fingers point out at me, I look for broken nails).
The Indian art of Mehendi is designed anew on almost every too auspicious occasion. Weddings, fasts, anything you name it, you have it.
I got an imprint after more than five years now (I hardly find things auspicious, maybe). So here’s how the thing goes-
Mehendi, a typical feminine art, is said to add to the beauty of a woman (or provide her some if she doesn’t actually have it); It’s colour specifically telling how good a ‘woman’ she’ll be. The darker the red-black, the finer-coloured her (family’s, to be precise) life.
I never got Mehendi dark enough unless it was adulterated with chemicals which added to the ‘dark’. ~The truer I am, the ill-omened I am. (hah!)
Today Mehendi and its accompanies seeped in. On drying, it came out suitable enough. But my hands felt pierced.
(For blood, dried up, is dark black and red. You see, my veins bleed every time I try dissolving lies in myself).
And when you say dogs keep barking, just once consider this-
Dogs usually bark in dark, at either mysteries or the mysterious- thieves or ghosts, maybe. You are either, in parts, I guess.
You ask me what a shattered dream feels like. Yes you feel pain, for a part of you falls off.
But you know what increases the pain even more? It is that this part falls down, crushes and then gets buried in Earth, when even the Earth is yours. Now you continue to contain the dream, in fragments, knowing that the pieces are too sharp to be joined again. Also, these pieces are too sharp not to cut your veins every time you let oxygen touch it.
(Man, too many metaphors).