Living Life in Bits

Music. Oil paints. Shantaram. Dev Anand. Oil pastels. Handmade paper. Silk. Chappals. Glass paint. Smell of turpentine. God of small things. Research. Conversations. Love. Lots of it. Hugs too. And imagined kisses. A presentation. Family. A single tie. Impatience. Loneliness. Sighs. Interruptions. Love again. Salads. Broken nails. Paints. And paint brushes too. Of writing. And reading. Loving reading. Then hating it again. Same difference. A virtual farm. Cows and turkeys. Of pink satin pillow cases and a bunch of 12 red roses. Being there. Being not there. Ignore. And being ignored. Painted walls. Wilting money plants. Music. Bollywood. Anthony Gonzalves. Arundhathi Roy. Aditi and arundhati. Babies with dimpled cheeks and big black eyes. Living together. Living on phones. Living off suitcases. Still living. Music. Oil paints. Shantaram. Studies. Or what mocks it. Long drive cravings. Dreams. Lots of it. The good and the bad. Flowers. Photographs. Ankle socks and frosty toes. Coffee. Masala tea. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Paints. Paper. Pen. Music. Songs. Love. Mirrors. Satin and silk. Love. Conversations. Coyness. Anger. Laughter. Tears. Whines. Living life. In bits.

You/Me/Me/You

Missed hugs. Missed calls. A little tiny tear. Your tee shirt. Me.

Long hours. Stolen rest. Busy days. My tiring calls. You.

The Very Short Conversation

“You do know that people are talking about us. Don’t you?” She asked him in her usual matter of fact no nonsense way.
“Oh! Are they? But why?” He looked at her quizzically, still frantically stirring his mug of almost boiling coffee
“Isn’t that obvious?” She asked incredulously
“erm...is it? Why?” The stirring was replaced by blowing into the mug.
“Coz we are always together. We have our meals together. We are practically well yeah for lack of better word...together.”
“Oh!” she was sure he dint understand “But what’s wrong in it? Is there anything wrong?”
“ No. I just wanted to let you know in case you had a problem with it.”
He considered. “ No I don’t think I do.” He went back to stirring his coffee. She was sure the spoon would create the end of the orange large mug. “But then you know....”
“what?”
“well you are a girl and all.....” he hesitated.
She snorted. “men are so dumb”
“Whats wrong? I meant you know the tag and all...what if people start talking about you in a wrong way and all? Especially others in campus...”
“men ARE dumb” she reiterated.
“I am trying to be nice.”
“Idiotic. Thats what you are being now.”
“You women say we men are jerks because we are insensitive. Here I am, trying to be nice, and you call me dumb.”
“Listen men are jerks. No denying that. Men are also dumb. You are just proving that point. Over and over again.”
“Not all men are jerks. Come on. Don’t give me that feminist crap.” He looked insulted.
“It’s not a generalization. Like how many women you know stare at you up and down and virtually undress you as you walk past? How many women have passed lewd comments at you while crossing you on the road? Just about how many women have grabbed you and your whatever in public spaces? And am sure no women has rubbed against you while traveling in the bus or flew past in a bike shouting obscenities and laughing at you or followed you if you happened to be alone on the road at a particular point of time? Can you count the number of times?” Her eyes flashed as she looked at him.
He put the mug of now-just-steaming-coffee on the table, neatly kept the spoon next to it and ran his fingers through his hair. “Well...I haven’t had to face any...but then again...not all men are jerks....” he said almost feebly.
“Oh no. Not all men are. Just about a mere 90% of them are” She sneered.
“oye! Thats unfair. Would you call me jerk?”
“Well I’ve just known you for like what half a month...so I can’t really say.”
“That’s unfair again. But I guess I can only defend myself in saying that I haven’t done any of those things that you mentioned above to anyone...”
“Well am sure you haven’t. You don’t come across as that big a jerk” she grinned.
“That big!! What’s that supposed to mean? You women never trust anyone...that's your main problem.”
“Well yeah. We generally don’t trust men. How can you when there are fathers raping daughters and uncles fathering nieces’ daughters? And especially when we women know for a fact that whenever a man says he loves a girl he’s secretly even unconsciously thinking how good she’ll be in bed..”
“Well in my defense I’ve never thought of that when I think about....” ? He stopped. Grabbed the orange coffee mug and gulped down a big mouthful. If the coffee burnt right down to his tummy bottom, he dint show it. Except that his eyes watered slightly.
“think about....?” She grinned
“no..like...randomly....you know....girls and stuff....” He ran his hand through his hair and scratched behind his ears.
“Oh so you think about men that way...” she chuckled. “Well don’t worry...gay rights are getting a lot of attention...and soon they’ll legalise gay marriages too.” She guffawed.
“Oh no no no....am am normal...sorry am straight. I just said I don’t think in the way you mentioned....” he blushed furiously.
“Ok let’s get back to the conversation...” She smiled wickedly. “You don’t think like that when you think of.....me?” she looked at him again.
He squirmed
“Does that mean you hate to think how bad I’ll be in bed?” she stuck her tongue out at him.
“ NO!! No!! Its just...well I don’t know...just that I’ve not thought in that way....”
“Someone once told me that you shouldn’t wait for a guy to propose to you. Knowing guys they just might not. They are all lazy bums. So am saving you the embarrassment. People are talking about us anyway. Why not give them something to talk about? Do you mind?” she asked.
Whatever it was he clearly did not expect this. “You are kidding me!”
“So is that a no?” she laughed
“no no....sheesh!....who is the guy here?” He almost looked offended.
“See...I told you guys are dumb.”
“They are also jerks. I was in fact thinking about how great it would be kiss your lips while you were on your spiel about men.” He winked.
“See we women are always right...”

Just Maybe

I've been thinking lately. Of the things I've almost stopped doing. Like painting, making things out of barely nothing, writing, knitting, reading (not so much...but almost) and the things I've taken up lately. Washing, cleaning, arranging, decorating...

Life taking on a mundane mode? Maybe!!

to a dead blog

its been two months that i've even set foot on this sphere which used to mean so much to me. For about the 3rd time I've started this blog, my impulse to write has waned somewhat. But contrary to the 'lost' feeling that used to attach itself to me once I stopped writing earlier, this time around, I don't even miss it. I am bored reading what I write. I need to write new. And maybe I need to renew myself. Sigh. Seems too much of an effort.

Adios

from this moment on...

I just swear
That I'll always be there
I'd give anything and everything
And I will always care
Through weakness and strength
Happiness and sorrow
For better or for worse
I will love you
With every beat of my heart

From this moment life has begun
From this moment you are the one
Right beside you is where I belong
From this moment on

From this moment I have been blessed
I live only for your happiness
And for your love
I'd give my last breath
From this moment on

I give my hand to you with all my heart
Can't wait to live my life with you
Can't wait to start
You and I will never be apart
My dreams came true because of you

From this moment as long as I live
I will love you
I promise you this
There is nothing I wouldn't give
From this moment on

Your the reason I believe in love
And you're the answer to my prayers from up above
All we need is just the two of us
My dreams came true because of you

(Shania Twain)

I don't exactly know what has made me post it...except that it seems so right. To the one who makes all romantic songs so lovely and the lyrics so meaningful...
i love you

Moles and Scars

There are times when I surprise myself with my memory. It springs on me at the most unexpected of days, when I wish I were diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Living through times hasn’t always been easy, but to relive them when you least need them has been draining and killing, to say the least. I was with her that day, going over the designs for wedding cards. I could see the golden ring on her finger glisten, as she sifted through card after card, while the attendant pored over her trying to help her out, his eyes straying sometimes to the white of her cleavage, which peeked out from the translucent violet dupatta that she’d draped around her.

I followed his gaze, not attempting to tell her to sit up, but gazing at the little of what I had seen more of. I remembered the whiteness and the softness, the red marks that I’d left on them, the trail of my tongue as it had felt them, I also remembered the duskiness of breasts, a mole under her left breast, the scar on her lower belly from an appendicitis operation, the faded scars of abuse that her father pelted on her in his anger fits. I remembered the duskiness, I also remembered the whiteness.

It did not take me time to recall that white was different from the duskiness. The absence and presence of scars and the beautiful face and the scornful face. The glisten of the ring and her hand on my thighs as she held up a cared distracted me. But not completely. I remembered her now. The only one to wear sarees to college, when everyone else wore jeans and skirts and tried hard to make nothingness show out of measly Barbie doll dresses. I remember her cotton sarees as she walked in to classes with windblown and tied back black hair. I remember the big bindis, the tiny nose ring and the sandaks. I remember her sketches, as they fell out of her notebooks, sketches of tears, of blood, revenge and solitude. I could almost remember her smell, something which I hadn’t ever smelt before. Of Indian ink and tulsi, of whiskey and mustard, of wood sharpening and machine oil. I remember her smell the most.

I used to catch her eye quite often as we sat on opposite side of the gallery in our graphics classes. She stared back usually, a bored surprised look on her face. It did not occur to me the difference in equation. I turned my gaze away first, looking down hurriedly at the blank page in my notebook, or suddenly finding the professors talk amazing, while she still stared at me from the other corner. It did not strike me that with men, it usually happens the other way around.

It wasn’t until my then best friend, the one now I don’t even call up once in ten years, asked me if I had something for her. I did not know. I found her stare captivating. I knew it wasn’t reserved for me. It was for everyone. No one escaped her. I could see people squirm under her even casual gaze. I later remembered that she was the only one in our batch who hadn’t been ragged. While I was commanded to run naked with a pacifier in my mouth along the corridors of the ladies hostel, I remember her sitting on the verandah,one leg curled under her, a pencil in her hand. I caught a whiff of Indian ink as I raced away; suddenly feeling the sudden urge to cry. I felt her looking at me from behind, I remember feeling her gaze on me, I remember thinking that the corridor was too long.

I remember her bored laugh as I learnt for the first time that sex hurts men too. I remember her smile as she looked at me from the bed, as I took a bath in the shower. I remember the faded scars on her thighs only too well.

We walked out of the card shop, she held up our wedding card for me to see. I held back my memories from her.

songs of togetherness

As you stand with me today, the wind blows my hair across my face, tangling it, untangling and making newer tangles.In the same wind that plays with my hair, I smell your breath, your smell. A little bit of the hospital that you carry along with you always, the smell that I leave on you, and your smell of you. Every time I've stood with you like this, I feel new,I feel different, and yet I feel the same.I feel happy and then I feel tears wetting my eyelashes. I feel like singing. Songs with no lyrics, no music, but still songs, inside me, that I know you will hear, without even having to listen hard...

the middle path

It’s cold and you put your hands around me. I brush it away. And wrap my arms around myself. You shrug but say nothing. I can see the wistful look in your eyes. I pretend to not care. In between hours divided for others and other things, this is some time we have together. But am not ready to be happy.
I can be content with more of this. Even nothing of this.
Its this midway that hurts.

!

There’s pleasure in waiting
It’s like licking an ice cream cone
Bottoms first.