I have died many times in the white wilderness.

A heartbreak, a numb hand, a fiery tear from the gentle flames of a bonfire.
Death is preparing us, every day with its shadowy hiss.

If we're quite enough, we can be comforted by the gatekeeper.
But if we thrash & slither, the mountains will swallow you.

Death in White Winter, up in the clouds, in the mountains. What a way to go!

She caresses the guy’s cheek asking for money when all she wants to do is leave a mark.

She sweet-talks the guy by the curb when all she wants to do is hurt him... hurt him bad.

She eyes him from across the room, signaling him to head back, when all she wants to do is stab him with the table knife.

She peers through the tinted car window and flashes a pearly smile when all she wants to do is rip his throat off.

She stands by the street corner, clapping and twirling in her lehenga trying to get his attention when all she wants to do is to light him on fire.

I am sitting in a cafe. Badly lit. I am safe here sitting with a guy who thinks he can eye me the way he is.

But hey. I wouldn't know the half of it, right?

He was walking up the stairs yet again
I stood by the entrance of the bar with a cigarette between my lips
He smiled his crooked smile as he approached
BEAT SKIP BEAT
I look away after throwing a casual smile his way
Every step he takes toward me builds urgency
I look up at him again and he walks toward me with open arms
The second seems eternal. I feel like I need to bury myself in him. Like a little girl.
I try to prolong the hug as much as I can, soak myself in him.
I inhale his scent
Coffee and melon
I am ready now. To forget him.
Because that’s all he is
Coffee and melon…

I hope you don't seep through my fingers like water
I hope you don't disappear like cotton candy in the wind
I hope you don't crumble like the powdery remains of a pillar
I hope you don't burn out like a dying candle
I hope you don't dissolve into the night like a black cat

New girl in the city

I hope I make it

“What is your favourite drink?”
The world is falling apart

“Picture a mango tree for me”
Cascading cascading…

“Let’s swing in that old tyre swing”
Sure!

"Can it get any harder than it already is? Life?”
Slumber with me

“You hardly say anything. Do you want me to get you a drink?”
But isn't it too dark?

"What is your favourite drink?”

Fifty a day, nil the next
The crevices on my lips are a sultry addition today, an imperfection tomorrow
The future is full of prospects, tic toc tic toc…now a void
Emotions and ideas are overrated.
Today I am me. Tomorrow who will I be?
Thousand a day, nil the next…

Revisiting a memory...

A time when the world meant something different.
Sitting in my sister’s room, watching her stack her CDs.
I always remember the room being messy. The cupboards are flung open and I can see heaps of books and clothes.
Shell chimes hung from the ceiling. Lavender and white.
With the 4 O’ clock sun streaming in through the window, I remember feeling happy.
Happy for being there.
It always meant a lot to be in her room.
Red Hot Chili Peppers are playing Californication and I just can’t think of anything that would make me happy at the moment.
Soon it will be dark and I will no longer feel the sun’s warmth on my face.
I think amma is making tea.
The smell of sweet ginger tea is wafting through the hallway.
I hear girls playing outside.
Today I don’t want to join them.
At least not right away.
I had to be here.
Feeling warm and fuzzy.

What worries did I have?

She crumbled with every gale
Darkened, draining of all colour
With an underground fire, short lived yet somehow eternal
All that was left in me
Was a trace of happiness and rush from her ashy *****
Breathless and radiant, she leaves me feeling
Hard to quit, hard to forget
She is what she is

Don't **** them

God had an idea
What if that one ***** didn't fight through
You would't be living, breathing, suffering or experiencing beauty

One single idea is all it takes to create

Create, don't ****

Do you know what it is like to see and believe in love yet not feel it inside of you?

It is like living inside of a glass coffin, knowing air is our there, seeing the trees dance with every swish of breeze.

Yet inside you are slowly dying. Dying and rotting.

I am rotting.

The hot and the cold collide
It is soft and tender, yet wild and free

There is no tomorrow, only now
And oh how it is etched in time!
Fresh hot branding!

As the extremes conflict, they slowly merge

A mellow hiss is all that is left of the time lost in eternity
Forever real
Forever beautiful

If you can't see the magic in putting simple words together that evokes a passion, equal to the power of a thousand horses,

then WHO ARE YOU?

He moans like my fantasy
The moon is brimming with radiance
I know this feels wrong yet right
Tomorrow this feeling will be gone and I know it already
But that is the thing about midnight love
It is magical and exists in a realm that is surreal
I visited that realm. Like never before and liked it
There is passion in my lips and longing in my eyes
I am swept away and there is nothing I can do about it

A haze drops and all I see is him and his eyes, trailing all over me
I feel dizzy with wanting and I try to break it off in vain
Something in me has changed. For I have never let anyone do what he did to me
Love

The dusty windowpanes, the water-pecked window and the silent fridge - humming in the background.

What do houses do when nobody's home?

The silence must be awkward.
With the windows shut and the doors closed, do the houses mourn the silence or take it in peace?

What I wouldn't give to be a houseplant, just to get a taste of the silence.

Oh I really do wonder!

What do houses do when nobody's home?

Today, my day is painted a gauzy green.
I am feeling beautiful and lush and everywhere I see, I see nothing but beauty.

That is very simply put, I know.

But today is that kind of a day.

Just beautiful.

The 5 O clock sun hit me with the abruptness of a bird flying into a window.
I squint in irritation and turn to look at my laptop screen.
I stare blankly at it for a while when my vision suddenly adjusts to the reflection of my chest on the screen.
I look intently.

The image of my chequered chest rising and falling, very slowly, burns into my head.
Isn’t this why we do everything we do?

To lie down on a warm bed of wet mud and take a lung full of fresh air before we fall into a deep slumber?

I am filled with the emptiness of a teen.
With my hands crossed behind my head, I am lying down on the floor.
It is gently pouring and the little drops hailing against the banana leaves is a pleasant sound.
I have my feet up the window sill with the curtains fluttering.
My room is dark and I can see the streetlight filtering through the tiny window.

All of a sudden, a familiar smell catches my attention.
Amma is making rasam! My stomach grumbles involuntarily.

Although I am lying here with my feet exposed to the cold breeze, I feel like I am there watching her grind the pepper.

I close my eyes and imagine her moving around the kitchen, asking me to stay out of the way.

I smile.

Rain and rasam had always been a tradition at home and this made me happy.

I open my eyes.

I wipe a tear off as I know I am a thousand miles away from home.

Because my thoughts, ever day, are turning unconventional.

My beliefs are cementing.
I don’t call every walking human being an ape for being himself.
I call myself an ape. Why, you ask?
If I like my tea sweet then he must be free to take his tea the way he wishes.
I simply can’t ****** sweetness down his throat.
My beliefs are cementing.
I would rather choose to sit alone in my apartment during my 40s, resenting love for being all around me, yet not in me.

The sun tints the sidewalk a dark grey
The water splashing from the hose leaves an earthy smell in contact
I stand to inhale the wet hot earth
My palms are sweaty as the sidewalk and I feel one with it
I bend down to sit on the sidewalk with my palms pressed down

I sit cross-legged with my bare legs grazing against the hot cement
The four O clock sun props up a shadow right above my head and it is no longer sunny where I am

I stand up dust my skirt and walk home

When you have nobody to count on.
Is it really a sad thing?

Here I am.
Lying on the dry grass with the ocean above me.
The ripples crash and sway, orchestrating watery fireworks.

A drop drips on my cheek and I smile.
Nobody but me.

I watched a worker strenuously wipe the water-stained glass door, this Monday.

I walked past a building wet with rain; the patterns were a graceful grey.

I watched an old lady, seated in the passenger seat of her car, draw smileys on her window.

I walked, trying not to step on a million little watery crevices on the sidewalk.

With water stains, everything has come alive.

From going hip and leaving the simple behind to seeking the good old times

What are we but mindless vagrants?

Love cannot be confined. Love cannot be bred.

I loved a boy. Even though I knew we had no future.
We met very rarely but when we did, our love for each other raged like forest fire.
I loved him for his good heart and I loved him for the way he had his life under control.

There was a part of me that knew he wasn't completely himself to me.
Because what was I but another person he knew?

That didn't stop me from loving him. I loved him with all my heart hundreds of kilometers away from him.

Because this love was mine. I had the perfect love and I didn't want him to love me back.

With this boy, I love being in love, alone.

Of rocks
Of pebbles
Of mind
Of matter

Of lust
Of greed
Of love
Of kindness

Of hate
Of spite
Of endless blight

Of music
Of dance
Of a violent trance

Of me

It is just a song.

But is always also a memory laced with a high.
From ***, from love, from hatred, from pain ... from a 3AM joint.

So how is it just a song?

Have you embraced solitude?

In the shadow mountains, cast by the candle's flickering dance. I smell it.
Oh and solitude smells musty, if you are wondering.

One morning, I saw a bird fly into solitude.
The bird tells me solitude sounds like the babbling of water.
She heard what it was like to be in solitude and she loved it.
She only talks to me in dreams now.

The painting on my wall, of a woman, came to life today.
She told me, her name was Murmurs and that solitude tastes like spiders.

How I envy the bird and Murmurs for I still haven't heard or tasted solitude.

Can you stop with one? Well then it never was passion for emotions
Can you douse it with a single drop of water? Then the fire wasn't a raging one!
Can you protect yourself from the gale with your will? Then you never were weak enough
Can you hide your lies in your lips as they sip on the last margarita? Then you never were real...

We are pushed everyday

I don't know what to expect anymore... But I am fine with it.
I don't know where the day will take me... But I have learned to deal with it.
I don't know why I am the way I am... But I have made my peace with it.
I don't know why people leave while some stay ... But I embrace it all.
I don't know what will hurt me because sometimes the saucer is hotter than the cup.

But hey... I am happy living one day at a time.

How do you thrive when everything around you is stunted?
How do you make an innocent whistle sound ghoulish?
I need to spread my wings, sitting by my ***** window.
But wait. How do I conjure myself the imaginary wings?

Square one.

Simple is no longer simple.
My love is battered by the weight of the world.
Constant need to sell my time, when all I want to do is walk on soft, warm grass.

I am told, with this struggle, I will appreciate happiness more.

Do I?

My peripheral vision tells me I have about 28 seconds
I blankly stare at the grey waters breaking over my feet
23 seconds and it will be over
I can feel the cactus fingers seeking me
I wish I can close my eyes but if I do, then I am no one
The last of me would fade with me
In a few seconds, 16, I will be one with the sea

I imagine I can hear a flower bloom somewhere in the forest behind me

10 seconds to eternity

8 and they can see me now
The long buttery fingers slip through the forest of people
Reaching for me

3 and I feel at peace with a tinge of anxiety for the unknown
1 all I see is se-

I see you scanning me, and let me tell you
It’s not a nice feeling to being ‘Seen’

The weather’s nice, what about that makes you see through my clothes?
Is it too much to yearn for some contact of sunlight on my skin, just as you do?

I’d like for you to be seen the way I feel seen
Trust me, you wouldn’t like being judged
It would be an alien concept in your world
You'd feel VIOLATED!

I hope for a day when you can stop thinking
That you govern my body

It IS my vessel after all. But a mere vessel.

A galactic tune reverberates in my head
I am able to sense the depth of my head for the first time
Corners I have never been to, lanes I have never known existed

I stroll through the dark as I am magnetically pulled through, with no exact destination
I know there is no escape, I don't want to escape
I don't fight it

The sun would rise soon
And I became the first to my knowledge to dread it
For this cold, dark orbit I am in, I am comfortable than ever

The white spread out like a glorious mess.
It was her favorite gown, now smeared with mud and blood.
I can see her knee from where I am
It is the color of burnt-cookies, skin as supple as honey.

A car was approaching.

Where does that leave me? And her?
The ghost car approached slowly with its light tainting the undisturbed moonlight.
I heard a rustle behind me. I close my mouth shut.
A slight squeak escapes my mouth and the rustling stops.

I look back to see the white gown. It is still there. I relax a bit.
The car is chugging ever so slowly.
Her skin slowly turned yellow.
The light got brighter and sharper, so did my hope.

Suddenly a bright beam falls upon my face!
I see the face of a killer, looming behind the beam.

My body is being dragged, as I shriek in silence.

The white gown got smaller and smaller, as I peered and struggled with the grip on my leg.

Blow!

Now I see dark. A dark I can't explain.

Remember the time you stopped to take a peek at the dead man?
I remember the expression in your eyes as you saw the blood trickling from his torn abdomen.
You trailed your glance toward me and then shied away when you caught me looking at you.
We rode back home in silence. Our cycles squeaked rhythmically every time the tyre came a full round.
You occasionally turned over your shoulder to look at me.
I shuddered a bit.

I remember the feeling of being with a stranger for the days to come.

Today I shudder. As I dream of that day.
I roll over to see you sleeping peacefully on your side of the bed.
Still a stranger.

I dream of seeing you. That little boy with a malicious smile.

Just once.

THE VOID:
Times are strange.
Nothing excites me and all I do is shuffle.
Between responsibilities piling up and
Not wanting to grow up, I am torn.
I don't remember why I wake up anymore.

Don't get me wrong, this is hardly a self-deprecating poem.

Because I know when the clock strikes 1800 hrs, my ride will arrive.

HIM:
He is about 60 years old and I have been riding with him in search of housing.
He is my broker.
To hear him banter and smile and truly enjoy his job.
Not as part of his job description, but because he is happy.

Almost makes me not want to find the perfect house, oddly.

Because to find happiness in you, you must find happiness in others.

Then for the rest of the evening, I am not unhappy anymore.

I was on my way back home, holding my phone in my clammy palms, skipping stone along the way.
Suddenly I had to squint.
What was that shiny thing, on the ground, between the grass?
Something glimmered and I almost lost it when the clouds blanketed the sun.
I waited, stiff, afraid I'd lose my vantage point.
Slowly the clouds parted and I managed to find it again.

The eyes, of a girl, knowing eyes looked back at me. She was worried, I could tell.
I wanted to reach out and pull her out of the earth.
But at the bink of an eye, something happened.
I suddenly saw the same eyes staring at me with the sky at the back of her head.
I try to look behind me, but there is no space.
I roll my eyes to the side and all I see is darkness.

I look up to see the girl is now gone. I was gone.

All I could do right now, was wait.
Wait for me to come back so I can switch.

If I can.

Nostalgia is the worst.

I know I mustn't dwell in times that seem simpler, for what I go through now is future nostalgia fodder.

"But can we help it?", I wondered as I pressed play on one of my favourite old Tamil songs.

It is called "Ninaikka Therintha Maname Unakku Marakka Theriyatha"

Join me on my mood, won't you?

With every 'woosh,' each blade left behind,
My admiration for the giant fan grew and grew...
Until the windmill, itself felt as big as the earth.
I held her hand and inched towards big, menacing slabs of steel swishing past us.

Her grip tightened around my wrist as well.
I could tell she was embarrassed to admit that this was a terrible detour.

My dad stood by our Santro, like a distant observer. A gentle guide.

I have a million memories, so many that I can just pick and play and replay it in my head, whenever I want to.

~

In reality, she's gone now, so has the menacing wind monster and so has the gentle, young man.

But in my reality, they'll always live.