High

I’ve never lived in homes with ceilings low,

breathing on me

like the open windows don’t belong

within the walls;

they’re too stumped,

buckling,

falling,

pressing.

I live now in an old apartment

and it seems like yesteryears were full of people like me

who didn’t want buckling walls ,

let tall lovers graze their homes with no apprehension,

believing in the power and beauty of them high ceilings:

untouchable bases of everyday living,

a space that lets you move.

It lets you explore.

It lets you jump.

Jump because I jump sometimes

in joy,

I shoot up when someone tickles me

an involuntary happiness that I can’t contain

it just spills and reaches out of my body.

I shoot.

Shoots, yes.

I want a lot of them, green from the top

hanging from my indoor skies,

vines filling for the veins of the walls,

pots and plants scaling my thoughts,

upright striving

and a safe space for their flowers to bloom.

I love high ceilings and I can’t lie,

not in houses alone

nor at work or that breakfast diner on my street

but at the psychiatrist’s office

or that bar that was once a bank

and in funeral homes.

The soul needs space to leave that body,

an outworn piece of clothing

the music needs to bounce,

it needs to echo, to want to dance in the presumed void;

it lets me dance with my beloved I bring home

and should he want to carry me high up

straddle my soul on his hips,

breasts at his lips

I want nothing to touch, no ceiling to hold on to

except the high cheekbones of his face.

I can’t be put in places with low ceilings,

they make me seems bigger than I am,

a giant,

an illusion of being free to accomplish goals

and I am not sure that is me.

The high ceilings are a friend

long lost

walls holding them up for me.

They meet me with open, blank slates

my art has the space to breathe,

the poems are up on my walls

living in sprouting light,

shadows incarnated.

When I’m head flat, water in my ears

in the bathtub

naked and suspended of social intrusions

I like looking at the light playing with the blinds

behind my back;

a fresh canvas

not breathing down on me or pressing me,

coercing me to be big

but a tender look that allows my insignificance to manifest.

The crown moulding looks at me like a lover,

the walls let me touch them

slow, I write in the air.

I once read this story about a man who filled his walls

with art, poetry and words,

ceiling resplendent with the words of others

until he hung himself from the fan

and I can’t help but think

how high his ceiling was

because these words can float,

they need no tethering,

they are little free lives in themselves

and if you put them in a box

and throw a person like me in it

I can never make peace with those words

and art, arrogantly mine.

I need the volume to love and it’s important that I love

because that is when I

and the colours

and the words I string

are most beautiful

and should you come to my funeral when I am gone,

I don’t want these words haunting you:

making you cry, kissing you against your will

but makes you rise and pluck words from my space

creating your poems from mine already dead,

streak it with colours

to later tell people about me

with a smile:

That funeral was hauntingly beautiful

and then,

Remember to look up

because

I am probably still there. 

I do not own this image. Collected from Pinterest.

Hemu 

Home?

I woke up one evening to a late summer sun that lives far beyond

its days of regular hours of light

to be situated in movement, in dynamism,

flitting between my lands of illusion and perceived reality.

I searched for landscapes that I’ve known to see by virtue of comfort

in between content sleep and momentary awakenings.

When I travel,

there are reassuring dim lights outlining mounds of back-lit mountains

with their own gaudy colours and early night's chatter.

My father in the front seat:

awake and seriously holding a conversation with the driver while

the speakers float in a language 

I comprehend at the most intimate level.

I woke up in a car racing back ‘home’.. Or what I should call home.

It took me three whole minutes to realise where I was

after the remnants of deep slumber

resting itself in the nooks of my breasts awoke

to transience.

Ten months in this city

and I still wake up from every deep slumber

to unfamiliarity.

Why, the dogs here never stop. 

They don’t have the time to stop.

They’re smiling and following the tug on their leash

following their human who has taught them to sit up straight and act like a dog,

to not lick the faces of people they love and act like a dog.

Don’t jump on her, those clothes will get dirty! Act like a good dog!  

They apologise for their furry companions sometimes,

‘I’m so sorry, He loves people.’ they say

and I want to just strip free of the collars round my neck,

strained attempts to ridiculous decorum

and roll by their side and fight in the mud;

because

familiarity to me is turning into my street

and whistling to have five street mongrels at my side.

They jump, they paw, they lick

and I could wash their freaking ticks away if I ever contracted any

But their love stays on across the seas for all the times they've listened to me

with crooked ears and curious eyes.

And so,

every single time I see a well-behaved dog outside my window

after a slumber so deep that I don’t realise where I am,

I miss being home where chaos was more unruly with herself,

flirting with the orderliness of monotony...

I finally understand what homesickness really means.

But now, I'm not sure I know what home means.

-Hemu

Why I'm Not on Tinder

A friend of mine recently asked me why I am not on Tinder.

I paused for a second, a wild stream of visual cues flowing in my head

but no words at that moment to exactly answer that question.

There lies no judgment in me for people for whom it works

but in my own twisted mind full of second-hand books that smell like tea

and library stamps as old as me,

a digital imprint as that struggles at the borders of my comfort zone.

I haven’t yet grasped the idea of swiping left or right.

People say I have to go after what I want but this doesn’t quite seem like seeking love yet

but squeezing possibilities out of the hope and dreaminess

uncertainty has latent in it in such a way that the tiniest thread persists in you

when you call quits.

No, I don’t think I quite fit in that narrative.

You see,

before and when I go out with you, I don’t want to have a safety net of what you do

or the weighing insecurity of who you did.

I don’t care if you’re 6’2” or the next fraction of measurement and

neither do I want unsolicited dick pictures in my inbox floating next to blank ‘Hi’s’

that were thrown in like bait in the sea.

No. That’s not what I believe in.

I believe in first dates where you can tell me more about what you do for passion instead of profession.

I don’t want small talk.

I don’t want to know where you’re from or who’s in your family but

how you feel when I say the word ‘home’ and what that means to you.

Would there be kitchen stools, pajamas, little legs and hot chocolate

or a glass of bourbon mixed in parts with fear and dread?

Tell me about your childhood dreams.

Tell me what you wanted to be when you were little and why you never became them.

Tell me why you believed all those people who said that superheroes weren’t real or that fish whisperer wasn’t on the hot job market.

Tell me what a fish whisperer meant in your little head and bright eyes, in the first place.

No, I don’t really want to know which school you went to but what you learnt,

un-learnt and re-learned.

Did you smile in your high school year book or were you afraid your braces would haunt

that beautiful broad grin of yours?

I want to know how you talk to your mother

and if she adjusted your tie on your prom night before you left into your version of adulthood?

Did you dance that night?

Tell me who that least popular kid in school was and if you ever gave them company

so that they didn’t feel shunned in the cruelty that some school lives can be…

….or wait,

tell me, were you that kid?

I’d like it known that I would rather have you turning up at my doorstep

with nothing more than a smile and enough meaningful conversation.

I fall in love with the small, important things.

Do you like cats or dogs?

If you have one of them divine beings, did you buy or adopt them?

Do you like tea or coffee?

Tell me, I need to know exactly what you take in it, how many cubes of sugar and all

and where you best like to drink it.

What do you first think of when I say the word ‘fuck’ or how weird ‘lovemaking’ sounds to you?

We’re still both strangers here and I don’t judge 

and so,  I’d like to know if you think drunken nights with nakedness are more intimate than

sharing a morning breakfast together still clothed in the modesty clinging to

our carnal expressions of the previous night.

I want to know everything I can

from how you smile when you blush or if you have deep dimples I’d want to kiss

in a three-dimensional world.

I want to see how you talk about your favourite fictional character

and if gym means making an impression or fitness.

I want to know what ice-cream flavours you like and

how you walk on the crosswalk as cars wait for you to pass

and if you ever gesture them thanks for stopping.

I have to know how your grandparents kissed you as a child and

how they looked at each other

and if you ever think you can ever have that with someone.

You see,

I want to know when you last sent a postcard to someone

and if you ever wrote a love letter.

No, something would seem amiss if I swiped you right on the best pictures of yourself.

No.

Until I know the rhythm with which you walk, the hand you wear your watch on,

how you treat a waiter or a child

and what tune you may whistle on a sunny day,

I can’t swipe you right.

In my little twisted mind full of second-hand books that smell like tea

and library stamps as old as me,

that just

won’t

be

right.

Image Source: http://www.mostbeautifulrussianwomen.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/09/Dating-Couple-Laughing.jpg

Where Are Your Curiosities?

I met an interesting lady in the locker room at the gym, on campus.

Amidst women changing into workout gear and fleets of us just in transit with a towel around our bodies, I met this down-to-earth soul who wrapped herself around with a special kind of joy. I haven't really had much of a conversation here with anyone in the locker room because everyone is predominantly in some sort of a hurry. There are some smiles now and then, quick questions about the weather, workout and fitness, and occasional stories between friends there that comes to float over your head; but there is hardly any time to sit down and talk to someone you don't know. I cherish these kind of dialogues and I recollect having them with random strangers ever since I was young and had started traveling alone for my gymnastics meets across the country. It's a refreshing encounter, every single time!

In a locker room majorly occupied by young college students, she stood out to me: not because of her age but because of her demeanour that consisted of a special kind of radiating smile. She smiled at me and I did so too, I've missed that in a while. She is easily 60 years older than I am. She had come in to swim because it was 'liberating'. For a person like me who is mortally afraid of deep waters (even after swimming lessons), she was an immediate conversation starter. 'Do what you're afraid of', was what she told me and immediately added she didn't mean to preach. I feel culturally attuned to being open to other people's life experiences and it was strange for me to hear someone as old as her to say that she did not mean to 'preach'. It's an interesting crossover for me, a person from a different culture. I wouldn't mind it anyway. Some of the best conversations I've had are with people with a lifetime of experiences and even though I have come to disagree with some of their notions in the past, I have learnt to listen to them and respond, sometimes to gently disagree. Learning to convey disagreement of ideas in a placid and respectable manner are some of the curves I've come to correspond with at twenty four,I guess!

I have always had this affection for people with a zest for life and an innocent disposition bordering curiosity in their quest for life, especially if they're much older than I am. Here is this amazing women for whom walking is difficult but swimming is gently easy and embracing. We were joking about how there needs to be water channels instead of pathways on campus. I was extremely curious to know what education she was pursuing and she generated an entire list! She graduated in 1949, if I remember the year correctly. History (WWI, WWII and The Vietnam War), Literature, Music and French are among the studies she pursued and she is now with the music department again. 'I've been coming here for thirty years. I've been doing this for as long as you are alive and I love it.' For a person who sees students pursuing their undergraduate career with a little of a sulk and my own monster of graduate studies and its expectations, she shone with so much optimism for life and learning something new.

Imagine the zealous curiosity and openness a person must possess to go from one education to the next, sprawling across different fields! She's even learning some Chinese and teaches little children to play the piano. 'I don't have a formal degree for it but I finally feel like I know enough to teach little children.' Listening to her made me question my own life choices, the long way I have ahead and the relative understanding that time and age is, to do anything. Mother of six children, some grandchildren and great-grand-children, this woman is jumping one hurdle after another like it is no big deal. She was so excited when I showed her my sketchbook and the kind of art I make, as it came up in our conversation of about 40 minutes; and I remember her remarking how it is absolutely amazing to come across the talents and skills people have. 'Imagine! Every single person has some sort of skill and creative talent in them, isn't that amazing?' she said. Well, isn't it? In this rat race of a life, that was a gentle reminder to acknowledge the strengths and talents of another person and to stop for a little while instead of trying to power through to simply make it to the 'end'.

In this fast pacing world, we assume we don't have the time for a lot of things, for our little sources of happiness, curiosities and circles of people. Perhaps, we don't make time for it? I used to write letters to my best friend between fifth grade and almost up until my first year of college. We have both grown up and though we still pick up from where we left things, we haven't been writing to each other because of each other's busy schedules. It was beautiful to me when I heard this lady recount that she spoke to her pen-pal over the phone a couple of days back because she is very sick. A pen-pal in France who was just 29 miles apart from the army during the war, a pen-pal whom she wrote to after a gap of 45 years after high school when she started French lessons again. Her pen-pal wrote to her in three weeks saying she was the one who opened the letter and here are these beautiful ladies keeping in touch with each other. When was the last time we sent a postcard or a handwritten letter to someone we love? I don't mean to romanticise the whole idea but I do wonder time and again, if our correspondences and its associated experiences are losing its tangibility and significance in this digital era.

She reminded me of my own grandmother back in India. My maternal grandmother is one of the most beautiful, kind and gentle people I know of. Her education consists only up until the eighth grade as far as I know but she's still one of the most malleable and open-minded people. I sometimes wonder if she grew into it or if being that kind and lovely is just in her. What is most beautiful in her is her curiosity. I love her curiosity and eagerness to learn. She doesn't know too much English but she plays the SpellTower game on the iPad and keeps generating new words. Sometimes, she forms words in the process of playing the game and asks one of us for the meaning of the new word she just landed on, learning one step at a time... with no hesitance or feelings of awkwardness.

Why is it that we don't have time and the countenance for our curiosities anymore? Why can't we be like children and much older folks to whom not knowing or learning something new is exciting? When in the process of 'growing up' did we cease to pay attention to our curiosities and why are a whole lot of us afraid to express them? I'm just wondering out loud here.

I found so much more openness to conversation, ideas and sharing the excitement of doing something new or simply having a chat with someone they don't know of, in her; the interesting lady from the locker room. We have exchanged phone numbers and I shall keep in touch with her, attend her concerts and perhaps, send a postcard even! :)

Life is full of curiosities. Strike up a conversation with them all!

Love,
Hemu

Image Source:https://memyselfandela.wordpress.com/2012/12/28/smile-of-an-angel/

The Fucking Beautiful Woman

I'm a woman, a beautiful one.

I have no space for making mistakes.
Little peach flaws that fills the heart of a man are allowed but ugly and grossly growing up events that alter me aren't quite permitted under being beautiful.

I look beautiful if I laugh but chortling mirth isn't one of them. I look beautiful when I cry. Just glassy eyes full of tears stranded like a water droplet on a lotus leaf, waiting for me to close my eyes in a dramatic moment so that it may flow perfectly down in a single line across my immaculate cheek.
Wailing my gut out and wrenching the ache doesn't paint a pretty picture, as you know.

I look beautiful whether I just wake up from bed or whether I am going to a party. Sleep lines on my face from sleeping on my man as the general consensus go, is beautiful. Wrinkles of age, not so much.

I look beautiful whether I wear cotton panties or fancy lace ones.

I don't know if you know but no longer do mere breasts count for representing my gender. It has to be emphasized. They have to be big enough and beautiful enough or I am not woman enough.

I can't afford to 'walk like a man'.. well, because I am a woman. I can't exercise enough caution on my preferences because picky women aren't beautiful. That strand of hair that falls on my forehead needs to freeze in time till no one can see how not-so-beautiful it can get. There are no provisions for humidity, rain or a lazy day in the life of a woman.

It's beautiful when I see what my partner wants or if there are stealthy kisses abducted from me even as I am an unwilling party because He knows (best) that I love him. I'm not beautiful if I am vocal about my sexual needs. The minute sex pleasures me, I turn into a slut and we all know that that is not beautiful.

The society thinks I'm 'old enough to get married' but any knowledge I may possess on the subject of sex and reproduction is because I have a dirty mind that dwells on the carnal pleasures that shouldn't concern me. Oh, it won't be a beautiful thing to do, my dear!

I'm a beautiful woman. Intelligent, intellectual, sexual or slutty, well-read or wise, warm, funny or humourous: none of these score well in the books of the beautiful. I can't be lazy and unkempt on days of my choosing, eat like a glutton or drink like a sailor.

Because you see, I'm a woman. And I'm fucking beautiful.

Nothing less.
Nothing more either.

Image belongs to Hemalatha Venkatraman. Do not reproduce without permission 

~Hemu 

Treasurywalla, Open Letters and Objectification

    In the last couple of days, social media was suddenly booming with an open letter from Shehnaz Treasurywala to eminent male personalities of India in an attempt to either grab their attention towards the increasing crimes against women or a means of publicity stunt. I read it and chose not to comment on it or share it, nor did I feel it's something out of the blue because we women have been yelling this pretty much everyday with almost no effect. I also happened to read an open letter to Ms.Treasurywala from an Indian man asking her all sorts of questions, that I felt the need to pen this down, upon reading the kind of eyebrow-raising comments on the website.

    I don't care if Ms. Shehnaz's open letter was a publicity stunt or not. The problem with most things we Indians do is attaching our judgement on a person along with their viewpoint. For starters, would this letter have reached such masses had it not been an actor's? Secondly, why conjoin her profession and the content? Would the same objectionable questions about what one does for a living been raised had this letter been written by an anonymous author or a 'conservative, Indian girl'?

    The response letter has placed a heavy weight on the objectification of women. Sexual objectification in movies, ads etc. First of all, how many of us have informed and contemplated opinions on objectification at all, is a question that runs in my head. I still haven't quite confirmed my own thoughts on the matter. Is sexual objectification deplorable because we have complete disregard for the party's personality or is it an aggressive movement towards the tapping of downright raw nature of human being?
   
    I cannot but agree of all those movies that have scantly clad heroines without any role but glamour and that of a crowd-puller. It makes me wonder why the heroine agreed to such a movie at all.(Money aside, of course) But glamour and sexual appeal are there in almost all of our movies. Do we suggest to ban such portrayals or learn to see past it? Mass media is a portrayal of the society and vice versa. In this cyclic process, who stops first and who follows? Will filmmakers stop introducing erotica in movies if we, the public, learn to see past the fact that it's yet another viewpoint or stop the thought itself by banning such scenes in the movies? Would such an act be regressive or progressive? For, one one hand we're finally moving away from patriarchal concepts that deem women pure and chaste if only she refrains from a particular kind of behaviour we all well acquainted to understand and on the other hand we're wishing to walk away from the other end and asking women to not be open about their own bodies. In a world where sexual objectification of both men and women are on the rise, why are we greatly concerned with only women? What did the poor men do? Or is it all praise for men and condescension for women on the topic of sexual objectification?

       I found it extremely disconcerting to note that the response to the actor's letter ran along a line of condescension. The author lays emphasis on whether celebrities ever talk about all this at the least 'over a cocktail party'. Why is alcohol even being brought into the whole story? What eligibility criteria did he pass in order to question Sunny Leone's eligibility in the movie industry?

     It's not like these 'celebrities' aren't doing anything to bring upon public awareness in the country. What about people like Aamir Khan, Farhan Aktar, Amitabh Bachchan, Vidya Balan, Shabana Azmi, Rahul Bose and Nafisa Ali? While you may claim that Aamir Khan charges in crores for an episode of Satyamev Jayate, clicking your tongue; he's still doing a great deal to the society. Money is a part of his job and no one but himself has a say in it. How long is the society going to blame the movie industry? Yes, it's unsettling that masses are swayed whenever an actress's legs are in view and it gets them all horny. If don't want to get all horny and rape people, do not watch those movies. But no! You'll want to watch them anyway and later raise questions about an actor's choice of movies and nudity. That, my friend, is called hypocrisy. Ever wondered about all those movies where the lead actors utter something utterly chauvinistic about how a woman should be? All I heard in the theatre are claps and support when dialogues fill the air about how a woman should be. (In Tamil: they go like 'Pombala na adakka odukkama irukkanum') I didn't see anyone writing open letters then. Why now?

    The problem with our society is that it's full of taboos that needs to see the light of the day. Sex is taboo but we're one of the largest reproducing country in the world. No, we can't portray erotica but it's perfectly okay to be pent up with sexual energy that can be unleashed on the streets while folks from one's own family sleep in the safety of their homes. I believe that the rate of crimes against women, in particular will decrease only through awareness and education. Yes, movies are influential and you can question the kind of message a film delivers but we have no right to judge an actor based on their choice of movies and interlinking an on-screen portrayal with their real life persona. It's not the complete catalyst for groping hands and lewd comments on the road. It comes from those mothers who let their boys be, even as they exhibit questionable characteristics and don't let their daughters out in the night because it's not safe. It's because of your high school biology teacher who chose to skip the chapter on reproduction or spent a matter of minutes on it with the rest for 'your own reading' of the subject. It's because of the callous remarks and labels attached to the idea of boys and girls in the country. It's happening because of those fathers who don't slap their sons hard when they harass another but smile in a resigned approval. A lot of issues don't surface because they're bound by the ideas of morality and 'family values'. It's time we all took time out to understand what it really is, in the current times. The day sex can be a dining table topic, we'll have the air around the topic cleared and resolved.

 Until then, let's at the least not blame a third party and realize that something is fundamentally wrong with the way we choose to see a situation.

Decide what you wish to take from a movie or a man or woman. It's always a matter of choice.

Google images 

Google images

~Hemu

Headscarves

The sun rises when she lifts up her chin
and sets when she breaks free the scarf 

full of misery and pain that she holds in her head. 

Headscarves of the woman bear more than the colours that you see. 

Source: HEADSCARVES

~Hemu 

Broken

We are all but broken women 

pieced together by the joyful memories 

lining every heartbreak,

every belied relationship 

and all of the hidden sorrows

behind fallacious, colourful smiles. 

We are but broken girls 

sprouting out of our own wombs,

further broken with every push;

standing out of monotony 

as a lovely mosaic of our own mess. 

We are broken.

But oh, the shards are just too beautiful 

to comprehend,

to surpass 

or to be neglected. 

Just remember to piece yourself together.

You'll be spectacular. 

Original Artwork by Hemalatha Venkatman | Copyrighted  | Do not reproduce without permission 

|In connection with my art blog Hemu's Art Blog's ongoing Inktober Challenge and the Facebook page of this blog where I have been putting up a poem a day. | 

~Penned and sketched by Hemu 

The Girl Who Catches Stars in Her Hair

I know a girl whose hands are always full
with misery and poetry, love in vain and abyss infinite.
Yet, she settles down to catch the evading stars every night
and because her hands are full,
the stars perch themselves on her hair
so that she may smile.

Original Artwork by Hemalatha Venkatraman | Copyrighted | Do not use without permission 

| I have been going about with pet projects on my art and writing blogs where I put up one inked sketch as a part of the Inktober Challenge throughout October. On this blog's Facebook page, (Street of Smiles) I've putting up one poem a day for as long as I can. I collaborated both the projects for the day, combining my art and poetry. Please do let know what you think of it. :) My art blog can be found at Hemu's Art Blog! ) Thanks and cheers! |


Penned and sketched by
Hemu 

Dangling Feet

   I’m borderline aqua-phobic. The line lies between that simple stance that my feet can touch the floor of the water bed and the assurance that drowning is not a possibility. It lies submerged in the sea-green blues of the waters, the fear of not death but suffocation unto death and the helplessness of it.

   Sixteen years of age was when I set out to Calcutta for the first time in my life en-route to Manipur. The train chugged away, pulling with ease the coaches that followed, sculpted with steel carrying people full of dreams. The locomotive sped at an immense speed as I edged my way to the doors of my bogie, swaying with the whims of the vehicle itself.

  It was noon and everyone had slept into obliviousness. The door was wide open, as I held the handles just on the outside and lunged my body forward for the erstwhile breezing wind to scream in my ears. Drawn to the avenues open to my senses; I merely collapsed and sat down on the steps, still holding on to the rails, feet dangling to the moving Jelly stones. The rhythmic lull of the wagons over the railway tracks seemed like the ritual of love-making between two as I closed my eyes; unaware of the people around me, singled out within.

   I don’t know how many minutes passed before my eyes opened to a change in sound, the return of the breeze alongside the summer sun. The rhythm was the same, but the echoes and sounds that emanated, completely different.  I gazed ahead to look at the calm blues staring back at me, its ripples moving from one to another, in constant motion.

   My fingers tightened around the handles as I peered down. Hundred feet below were deep waters that could devour me alive. It was the first time I saw seemingly bottomless waters below my own dangling feet. The initial flutters of anxiety and fear had drowned in the overwhelming feeling that was caught at my throat. I had never felt this comfortable, alive and fearless of waters. Transience and permanence loomed to and fro, as the moving waters coupled with the climax of the lulling pleasures put me in the moment, in complete awareness of my senses.

   I was neither in the past, nor an eon later. I lived that moment, completely, without the fear of suffocation and drowning lest I fall. In that unknown place, over an unknown water body somewhere in North-east India, I could then do nothing but smile as the cool wind kissed my face.
I have never felt that liberated, thoughtless and free in all my life, ever since.

~Hemu

I do NOT own this image. Source: Google images 

An Affair With Addiction

I don't understand those poets that romanticize alcohol;
attributing poetry to a glass of high
or a joint of weed.
I'm tempted to judge a man
who loves alcohol and smoke;
a daily dose of exigency
to unlock and  let oneself be.
But what right do I have to roll my eyes
at him, an artist
immersed in the illusion of beauty;
recovering and emerging from
a bottle of whisky
when my words spill and fall like
a momentous dominoes set
when I think of you?
The illusion and the addictive need
to romanticize the image of you?



~Hemu

Oh, Date The Girl Who Reads and Writes and Thinks and Dreams

|Way too much has been said about the girl who reads and the girl who writes, travels and takes pictures. Here I am offering you a package in a woman, many I know stuck in a bubble as huge as the solar system.. maybe much bigger.|

Date the girl who reads and writes and thinks and dreams for her worlds are interconnected. She flits between the real and the unreal, uses logical reasoning one moment and points her wand at your nose to turn  it into a great purple snout the next. She's the one who'll want long eventful screams on the roller coaster but also be the one who denies your bike ride when you forget your helmet back at home.

  Never mind with statistics about deaths by roller coasters and bikes or dancing on the road around her. She won't consider them most often. Chances are that you'll end up in an argument in which she'll win hands down unless of course; you are debating, for you'll be allowed to talk once in a while. (You'll maybe even learn the difference between the two)

Date the girl who reads and writes and thinks and dreams for she creates stories in her head picking up from her stories in life all real, trying to leave hints for the ones she wishes to see herself with and weaving it in magic and lyric; written with tears and some pretty good grammar. If you can't spot that, then maybe you are not the one. Then again, you'll know she'll think of ways to tell this to you. (which you in all probability will never understand) But oh, don't worry. These are the times her thinking blurs and imagination begins.

   Date the girl who reads and writes and thinks and dreams for she throws your life upside down. She'll want you as sexy as Rhett Butler but also as calm as Atticus Finch, goofy as Ron Weasley and seemingly obnoxious as Fitzwilliam Darcy. 'Perhaps you could learn something from Eeyore who builds his house everytime it's knocked down,' she'll tell you occasionally. You might not know these names or these people, you probably don't even know she called you a donkey towards the end. As opposed to most advice, do not hold her close when this happens and say that you understand when you don't. She'll find it out and yell out loud stating you are a dishonest asshole.

Date the girl who reads and writes and thinks and dreams because she is constantly scared and filled with ideas that could get you killed along with her. Her dreams are unclassified and chances are that you'll have to help her find the perfect spot for skydiving or hunt down at 30 stores before she finds 6 mismatched chairs and a table. You won't understand her wishlist for there is no coherence between successive bullets because she thinks one moment grounded in reality and then takes off to the sky and skydive from there, again. She'll want to buy the complete Calvin and Hobbes collection with her first salary when you'd think she'll donate it to charity and make you come with her in the pouring rain in search of a pitiful yelp at 1:00 AM in the morning when you really just want to sleep.

Date the girl who reads and writes and thinks and dreams for she'll make you think and dream before you speak if not write and read. She'll teach you the constellations and then connect the stars in her own way. You'll get a 'that's my niece, there's a dog and that cloud looks like Babloo, my first soft-toy-teddy'. (No, all of them don't look the same and she doesn't sleep cuddling a teddy bear either) She'll show you her diaries but you'll learn to never open it without her permission though it's probably filled with your name in every page. She's dumb at times. She might gift you a pink teddy bear key chain on your birthday and 'Donate your eyes' application form to her mother on her 45th birthday, but that's because she falls outside the rule book that tells people 'What to gift people on their birthdays'. Sometimes you'll have a star named after you and sometimes all you'll ever get is a bag of apples. Remember, that's because she hasn't still completely grasped the ideas of celebrating one's birthday.

Date the girl who reads and writes and thinks and dreams for she's filled with wanderlust and you'll be on your tiptoes all the time like the ballet dancer whose dance she takes you to see, spending all the money you have on the tickets that you have nothing left for dinner. But she'll make you good tea, the best for the ones who read know what support it. You've got to stand by though, never lie on the couch if you're hungry. You'll never get anything to eat if you dwindle around while she makes dinner. But wait, chances are that you're making it for she preferred attending sports lessons when a lot of her peers began to make the tastiest pasta ever. Good luck with that for she'll tell you that the salt is a pinch more than it should be unless you're exceptionally good.

Date the girl who reads and writes and thinks and dreams for she will go on whiskey drinking competitions and burp louder than you will for that's another feather on her cap already preening with many like karaoke nights and book readings at quaint little bookstores. She'll know people at every street she turns into and wishes she didn't for she loves new people and bumping into ventures round the corner. You will have a ball of a time for many people trust her unpredictability to be true and honest and you'll probably even get cookies for free. (that's a jackpot, isn't it?)

Date the girl who reads and writes and thinks and dreams for she a messy mix of what you might not like in a girl. Seeming obnoxiousness, a handful of ego, too many ideal prepositions and demanding stances, craziness hard to control and someone who'll never be subdued.She'll punch you in a fit of anger if I have understood her right. But she'll also pass on her infectious lifestyle of uncertainty and music, her varied concepts of love and your own space to do your own little crazy things, a dog, a cozy home you'll hardly be at owing to all the globe-trotting and perhaps 24 dogs to greet you at the door when come back home from work, together. Later, she'll dance in the rain with you and sing for the same.

Date the girl who reads and writes and thinks and dreams for she's the mess you want for the rest of your life. The perfect mess that will set the crooked painting on the wall straight.

SOURCE FOR IMAGES: GOOGLE- I DO NOT CLAIM OWNERSHIP OVER ANY OF THESE PICTURES.

Cheers!
Hemu

The Curious Case of Crematoriums and Women

It's a world riddled by mindless following of empty practices that has lost its meaning and setting in today's world. Starting from everyday notions like a woman being 'impure' during her period to being but an ally during all religious rites in most cases, the status of a woman is always judged by her biological clock ticking or assumptions on her psychological strength.

 The most favorite of all these has been the ban that has been imposed unsaid in the houses of most families, that women aren't allowed to go to the crematorium or perform the last rites of the dead. I have never really understood the concept but from the perspective of mental strength. A woman might probably lack the mental strength to hold back tears (which are apparently considered 'impure') thus causing a scene as the pyre is lit. But aren't there women who are far more stronger than some men are in such cases?

I come from a semi-orthodox Brahmin family as a whole. My parents however, have been broad-minded enough to let me make my own decisions in almost every matter. While the extended relatives scorn at my doings, my parents silently watch me through it irrespective of whether they approve my stance or not. In my opinion, I believe in attending the last rites of the deceased till the end. It's my way of paying the last respects, the final goodbye. Death is a concept I am trying hard to understand and accept as a part of life and something I'll continue to do so.

 My father is an interesting man.He has always made me deal with my situations on my own, instilled a sense of independence in my sister and myself. When I told him that I would definitely attend the last rites of a close relative who passed away recently, he didn't immediately agree to take me there. In the end, he did. But with a disclaimer: 'I'll take you there, no qualms about that. But anything that happens there, you'll have to face on your own.'

Several uncles I knew stopped me at the gates to the cremation grounds. There were blissfully unaware that I had attended these funerals in the past and that I knew what to expect. 

'No. Don't come beyond this point.'

'You won't be able to take it. Don't you come inside.'

Of course, some sensible men there supported me and said it's no big deal and that if I would be strong enough to take it, I may come inside. I did attend the whole rite, but with what level of ease? I had be less obvious of my mere presence among the other men so as to avoid any last minute scene. 

The only thought that constantly races through my head in all these scenarios is a big, block 'WHY'. Why should it be so difficult to pay the last respects to someone dear to me fearing social stigma? Why dodge through a scene that is likely to be caused by some hotheads at a point that is important in the final journey of the deceased? 

 A relative of mine once told me that the concept of death as understood by a man and woman are two different things altogether. The man sees the ashes and bones of the deceased post cremation and before scattering them in the sea, understands death in its complete sense; that there is no return to the physical being of the one gone.But the women on the other hand are merely exposed to the body last seen, still thinking that there lies the wishful life and the memories but not the hard hitting truth. It makes sense to leave behind people who are bound to be emotional and don't wish to witness what happens 'beyond'. But what about those who wish to come along and say goodbye? What of their wishes to pay their last respects to fulfillment?

The general notion is that the menfolk want to protect the womenfolk from it all. I ask you this : how long will you 'PROTECT' us from all this?

Maybe we don't want to be protected. It's best to call things by what they are. Masking and hiding anything definitely doesn't alleviate issues.Why not try to understand death as a household concept? How long are we going to keep the women in dark about what happens after the body leaves a home in a hearse? What if one day, they can be included in the process and we as a community grow spiritually, understand death in its form and sense? Customs that we tend to 'upkeep' now are irrelevant to current times.As far as my knowledge goes, Hinduism doesn't forbid women from entering crematorium grounds. If there are such 'rules' written down anywhere, I'd love to hear from you and its prevalence to current situations. 

This is a picture I took at Varanasi last year. For a city that is famed for cremations and liberation, no man stood with a stick by the cremation ghat asking me to move on and not witness what happens there everyday. Isn't that Hinduism in its original sense? 

Cheers!

Hemu

It Lulls Forever After the Storm

The sky has been split and I can see the many pieces
as they wait to be pulled with a gentle tap
and a strong hand.
It is starless tonight with a weathered smile
from dissolving clouds that pour their sorrow atop my
misery already floating over the metre.
I decided to knock one and remove its facade;
made up my mind to see beyond the outside.
My hands were at work and
eyes beyond it
as the frame collapsed and fell on me, face down.
Fragile is what I expected but
unassuming and a whole of the part it was,
of the complete wholesome.
I wish I knew how to explain what I saw beyond
the clothesline that cut the sky.
I really want to tell you how damp the terrace floors
were after appearing dry,
I lack the will to show you the intricate bits gathered
upon my eyelids as I blink
and the ego to let that all go.
Lying back down and looking at the dark bit
I have extracted,
I can only assure you there are more tears in that dark hole
than that has poured;
sucked into the emptiness of no reason.
                                                                                         

Source: Google Images- Wikimedia 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       

Croaking Under the Sun

I run around with this paper cup in hand,

handing out smiles in return for cynicism and more laughter. 

I am probably stupid

to bear the misery they have to offer 

Source: Google images 

weighing my pockets down

just so I can be myself,

but it seemed so much easier 

than lunging around much heavier masks 

of happiness and sorrow;

prim and proper. 

Of love and hate colliding 

against the face that perceives. 

So, I chucked them all 

as people taught me to build 

the same

with restraint and probable intelligence,

to immerse myself in blissful nonchalance. 

I won't drown. 

Agony vanishes in water

and nothing else keeps me down

as I fight heavy judgmental

currents 

telling my tale to the fish that leaps 

forth into the air so bereft while full of life 

for brief laps of time,

enjoying the edge but always back to safety,

unlike me.

I don't know how to swim yet.

But croak I shall if I must 

as I am,

but never cloak.*

*It doesn't apply when I am flying around saving people. Just saying. 

My Shorts Are Your Scandal?

Recently, my college authorities had taken our batch on a north India tour which was prescribed as a part of our curriculum. The declaration form signed by our respective parents agreed that their wards would dress decently and in accordance with the dress code. Whenever a dress code is emphasized in any place, it is predominantly of esteem importance and pressed in the case of women. While we did have the 'liberty' to wear tee-shirts or shirts deemed decent and not provoking, (many colleges in the state are extremely close-minded as far as the topic is concerned. Salwars are what God has deemed fit for the average modesty clinging woman in the country) it was noted that if any of us girls had worn shorts or any such clothes during the official part of the tour, we would have definitely been asked to charge alongside derogatory warnings whereas it didn't really matter if the boys wore them. It is not the fact that we weren't encouraged to wear the clothes  of our choice during this particular tour but the premise that decides what we have to wear at any point in time by various authorities like schools, colleges, the moral police etc., that bums me out.
 
   I expressed the unfairness of it to a friend of mine wondering out aloud why girls couldn't wear comfortable shorts or three-fourth pants on the train while the guys could roam around the way wanted to. He only said  that no one would stare at men wearing shorts but they most definitely would stare if a girl does the same, especially on a mode of transport as public as an interstate train.

Source: Google images 

  So, why does a little leg hurt men, their hormones and the so-called morale people? (inclusive of all genders) Honestly, I still can't think of my legs being anything more than a part of the anatomy thus into evolution. I wonder why I get cold stares from people I don't know and anxious ones with perspiration from ones I do know.

   I have been a gymnast for several years and used to wear the gymnastics costume that is mandatory at various competitions, both state and national levels. Initially, I used to feel a little odd about wearing a dress as short as that, exposing the thighs and legs completely but got used to with time. I think this is predominantly possible because no one looked at any of us girls there, dressed that way with leering looks or creepy stares. It was not a problem when our shorts reached just inches past our groin during the practice sessions. As an athlete, I have shorts and sleeveless jerseys which are the best in terms of comfort on track. There have been a lot of boys around there, but it was not a problem for any of them. Why is it only okay when it comes to a sport? Is it the rules that align mindsets? Is it the fact that sports-people are a special creation when it comes to hormones and thought?

Source: Google images

  I come to think of it as the fact that they get used to it. It is not thrust upon them that it is a sin to wear clothes so short in case of their women peers. It is told that it is okay. They eventually see women around with their legs exposed who don't think of it to be weird and neither do the people who are exposed to it, eventually. It is the effect of time and the mindset that evolves, that knows that it is comfortable for women to run in shorts and not full length tracksuits.

  On a parallel track, while I do think we are in that transition phase where legs are being revealed;(probably along with hands and cleavage) where it is not a sight uncommon to see a girl wearing clothes of her choice. But it is also the phase where the woman wearing such clothes is being labelled as a slut, whore, immoral and a big-time bitch. During a recent discussion with a few fellow bloggers on an online forum, I was plainly appalled and disgusted by the way some of them chose to see women. I wouldn't even say it was their perspective of women as much as objectifying them.

   I was glad to see the many open-minded men and women on that forum as well but two front-running speakers in opposition to most of our views said that man is still an animal and shouldn't be provoked. That women's dressing is one of the chief reasons for rape. Well, I believe that even if 'revealing' clothes are the ONLY reason for rapes, it isn't justified. Unless the other reasons fall to ashes and this is the only reason that's being pointed out, it isn't even on the table for a debate or arguments because obviously the flaws lie elsewhere.
I am irritated to see the hypocrisy in men I know.. in my friends, brothers and other relatives. While it okay for you to indulge in a drink in a pub, it is immoral if a woman does the same? Of course I have to admit at this juncture that many men are what their mothers made them to be and there is a blame that lies in the upbringing of the child, from the side of the parents as well.

  But we all grow up don't we? We use our rational mind to dissect right from wrong without bias in most issues but this one. Beyond a point, don't you think one has to evolve beyond it all? Beyond whatever ill-ideas are planted in one's upbringing, society and peers' opinions? If that hasn't happened, it means the respective person is shutting down a part of his mind to the obvious truth in front of them and clinging on to the hopeless strings of male chauvinism and ego. And if then, they debate or discuss with that closed-mind on such matters, it only seems like a joke to me.

   Legs are legs, whether they are that of men or women, breasts or chests, cleavage or no cleavage...it makes no difference if you are straight in your head to know that what anyone wears is his/her subjective choice and not be moral-policed. Don't let's make even the basic, comfort of woman scanned under the lights of your male-chauvinistic twisted ideas because frankly, no one gives a damn. Let me walk in peace.

P.S: This post does not in any way promote you running nude on the roads or asking someone to do the same. If you do so on the accounts of a very stupid comeback, I'm not bailing you out because I think the message I tried to convey here is pretty clear.And oh, in case you do get caught, smile for the mugshots. You only get one chance.  

Making love

She makes love all the time,
this girl I know.
Wavy hair on the rough side.
A clown adorning a crooked smile
that lights up really small eyes.
A girl who has already fallen in love with words
before, while and after she fell in love with a man.
If the first that peeps from the sky is a worm,
she'd write how beautiful it was
with its rings sparkling all through the night,
inching its way across the infinite realm of God.
If that little niece of hers puddles on her lap,
she jumps up in antagonising joy
while enjoying the warmth that lives
before she showers herself 'clean'.
While you only just read it in your head,
she articulates it in her heart and shouts
in passion that,
she lives in conditions unknown outside,
that she cannot track the number of words
nor the wrangling between her two different selves.
She cannot decide which side to go,
what to do about a boy she probably loved
and the rejection that sheathed itself in her heart.
Ramblings churn their way from her soul
losing its way in her blood,
sometimes hitting hard at the head;
which led some to think that
she has lost her senses.
I pity them,
for beyond a small nose and legs,
a large forehead and an independent stature,
they can't see that words swim inside of her
that give her more pleasure
than any boy EVER could.

~Hemu