staying

the one without a country in crowded restaurants,
he who wanted to go far away, always farther away,

The heat of the coffee cup at her fingertips kept ella rooted to her seat in the cafe, even as her mind wandered. She knew, she knew she was not the only one who wanted an exit. Just looking around her cubicle, everyday, she saw people looking restlessly at doorways and windows and at the hands of the clock as they moved. She saw it in the eyes of drunk people as they left the pubs and in the way some men held their coats in their hands on the evening locals - as if they'd let the coat go if only they could. she saw it in the whites of her own knuckles, her left hand held on to her purse in her lap tight.

didn't know what to do there, whether he wanted

This time, when she got up after she finished her coffee, she could pay the bill and get up and walk - not towards her office or towards the station to take the 8.30 local home but away She could go home instead but immediately after she was inside her apartment she could pack her bags and leave. But once she had done that when she was a stranger in some strange village or city or town, what would she do then? would she call her mother to tell her she was safe, or would that count as still being tied down? would she be escaping or running away? was it even possible to be rebellious at 28? Did she even have to think these things, if they didnt or wouldnt or weren't supposed to matter?

or didn't want to leave or remain on the island,
the hesitant one, the hybrid, entangled in himself

The cellphone call was answered. The bill for the coffee paid and the purse was safe in her hands as she crossed the street. Her knuckles whitened for a moment as she gripped the steel handle of her office's door. She decided she would stay on till the sight of flowers made her smile. Her exit could wait till then.

one monsoon morning

we will wake up

and levitate.

our feet are
the red of the earth
the earth and the sky
are the air we breathe
and we
are the fingers that hold
the silk of life

a river will wind
its way across my waist
and flow through your hands
like the evening breeze
through leaves of a young tree

the present shall pass.

where's when i was young, and we didnt give a damn...

its a day that redefines irritation. cant type. cant connect to the net. cant find a decent channel on tv that doesnt show reality crap. cant talk to people without snapping or biting their heads off. cant find people who do not provoke me to snap and bite their head off.

fuck.

seriously.

wrote poetry after ages. to give myself hope and actually felt better. but just before i could post it, the internet explorer gave up and the poetry was lost. i just want to cry or run away.

tradition

it could be the overpoweringly fragrant flowers tucked into her hair or the strange notions the old women in her family had of romance, but something had left kalyani's eyes furiously red and irritated. it could also be that being told to cover herself, to resist the urge to bring up that "american music" in conversation and to keep an arms' length distance from the "Boy" had left her simply irritated.

The "Boy" who was not to be called by name, himself, now sat confused and fidgety. when Kalyani had told him three months ago that she wanted to wait till marriage before they "did anything" he had accepted her words because she looked nervous even talking about anything which would constitute "doing". Also because he wondered if contradicting her on the sensitive issue of "doing anything" would drive her running to her mother and his, with a narration of the Scandalous Actions of the Boy. Three months had thus been spent sitting through many movies holding hands and in CCDs across town, over many cups of coffee.

Now, fifteen days away from their wedding, he sat at the appropriate distance from Kalyani and wondered what he was doing, visiting her. Kalyani herself, picking on the silk threads of the sofa's fabric, seemed quiet and angry. As she did so, an aunt set two cups of coffee on the table and discreetly pressed Kalyani's fingers down to keep her from plucking at the sofa fabric. She patted her hair and pulled Kalyani's dupatta closer to her neck for good measure. As she left, the Boy noticed Kalyani's breathing grow visibly heavier. He realised that in three months, this was the first time he had heard her say the word "fuck", even if under her breath.

He decided that polite and chivalrous was the way to go and said "something wrong?". The words "they all know that in eighteen more days, you'll see a lot more than my neck anyway!" fell suddenly on his ears and as she said them, Kalyani realised that eighteen days from now, everything she would do would be what she "should do, as a wife". She knew the Boy would not understand why she had kissed him at precisely that moment, on his lips and hard. But she would have a lifetime to explain, fifteen days later.

he woke up when he reached across the bed and didn't find her waist.

alakanande paramanande

she did not always think of leaving a note or kissing his brow before she left. maybe a teacup in the sink and a book on the floor, beside the chair. the newspaper, read and folded back in place. stayed till to noises of vehicles on the street below his apartment broke the morning in, not long enough till he woke up.

bhagirati sukhadayini

on other mornings, she was the fingertips on his back and the mellow noise of the shower running in the background as he walked around the apartment, sipping tea. she was the gentle pressure of her feet resting near his thigh on the couch, as they watched tv. she was a wisp of lemongrass perfume. she debated and paced and laughed until the noises on the street did not matter to him anymore, because she could distract his senses into forgetting everything outside the four walls that kept them together.


he wondered if the Ganga was, after all, a confused woman who could not decide if the sheer force of youthfulness suited her or if she wanted to flow gracefully towards a destiny.

faith, belief and other existential things

are what i intended to post about, these things having been on my mind for a while now.

sitting in cafe universal, at the end of what was a relatively decent monday, i am not too keen on asking questions or considering confusing concepts right now. This reminds of a paragraph in "The strange case of Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde" where this woman is peacefully gazing down at an empty street feeling content with mankind, when she is witness to a murder by Mr. Hyde. Since reading that paragraph as a child, I have always been wary of being overly ok with life, as it goes on - like being content is tempting fate. But on some days, you just have to sit back and breathe ease for a little while. let everyone else's conversation lull you into a quiet place. hum an obscure bangla song to yourself quietly.

resolutions

to be gracious.
to be less bitchy.
to stay calm and to meditate every day.
to be less fat.
to refrain from abusive language in speech and thought.

all of the above are already very difficult to keep.