Indian Democracy gone for a Swing : A(u)nti(e) Issues!

When I was young, my social science teacher taught me the fundamental rights that every Indian 'citizen' has. 
- Right to Equality 
- Right to freedom 
- Right against exploitation... and a few more. 

   Somehow, all this works, I get to exercise these rights more than ever once I had become an adult by law. I can marry if I'm over 18 years of age, to any person of my choice: Any religion, caste, creed and colour (Hell, even sex!). I can vote, I can become an entrepreneur, I can work, and I can legally sign papers and own property those old descendants left me. I can scream at police officers on the road if I am an uptight citizen against bribery, get drunk and in some extreme cases of proving my right, go high on weed and hash. 
But if there is something people are against 'an adult' doing, especially when you are over 18 or appearing to be so, it is playing on swings. 

    I don't know where they come from, these bored aunties in jogging parks. I'm not talking about those young mothers with an infant in their hands, not those enthusiastic, brisk ones jogging and walking around the path nor the lovers moonstruck in each other's ecstatic love. No, not these people. These are people who mind-their-own-business lot. Uncles and aunties, some hot boys and cute kids who come to fulfill their own missions varying  from reducing cholesterol to eating sand. 
   There's the other lot of people, some old uncles and mostly interfering aunties who realize they sweat too much in  the daily two hours power-cut in the town and thus haunt the parks I seem to like for its' colour, vividness and fresh air. I guess they get bored fighting with their spouses and torturing kids that they turn up here to find innocent youngsters exercising their right in the most decent way possible. 

    I don't know if its just my luck but these middle-aged-old aunties who just probably got their VRS find it extremely annoying if they find any soul who seems to be older than ten years of age play on the swing. Of course, the LTTE issues of the nation, the ever-existing corruption and scraping of our rightful resources and taxes gets solved when they roughly make young girls get down from the paradise and back to the earth. They are 'rule-followers' who are ready to pay bribes at government offices but.. No, 'YOU can't sit on the swing!' 
Why? 

'Oh, the nut is loose. It'll break.' Yes, I weigh about two-hundred and fifty kilos and so the poor piece of wood and steel has no chance. 

 'It's only for kids.'  Do I see one in sight? Ah, wait there is that fellow making sand castles and sandwiches out of sand. Does he care? No. 

   I don't understand why they enjoy doing this to me. They save a seat for their grandsons and granddaughters who are at the other end of the park. On top of it all, that fellow is just digging into the sand and pulling out plants. What more, they send kids to make me get up. Real mature. Those kids just end up digging more sand around the swing. Neat. 
   
    There is nothing in the Indian Law that states people as old as me can't sit on swings and play. But no, there's a sign, in invisible material stuck right over there. 'ONLY FOR CHILDREN UNDER 10-12 YEARS'. Yes, they have a world of worries you see. They do math in boxes, have sleep-time in school, their homework is done by their parents most of the times and their mistakes don't count. They can throw an egg on your face from atop a tree, but you just can't sit on that freaking swing. The only thing that can possibly be a reason is that ' the swings' health is failing' But no, it's there, rain or sunshine among disinterested children who wonder why their parents push them to and fro, thinking about sandcastles and cerlac. (Still.) Don't you get it, the kid doesn't care. He doesn't need it. But I do. 
  
   Their logic is impeccable. I weigh 'X' kilos. Oh no. I am too heavy. But three kids weighing 'a', 'b' and 'c' with a grand sum greater than my 'X' can play. Why? They are kids. Beautiful. 

A swing isn't a mere swing for those of you who don't know. It helps soothe a sad mind and dissipates happiness in the air when the heart is like a blue balloon full of helium. It is paradise where your grades, future, past or sentences don't exist. It is just the kick of the leg in the air and words in the heart, of joy, consolation or anxiety to be toned down.. to be neutralized. But no, I'm an adult and I don't respect those yelling ladies words'. I'm a woman who needs to behave in the public. Of all, I'm going to be reported to the authorities. Let them do it and I'll give them a glimpse of Dr. B.R. Ambedkar. 
   What happened to the kid in the heart, anyway? These ladies. Sigh. 

Grow up and let kids be. Or adults be. 

 The swing has a purpose. And it is definitely not to be thrashed around with mud or place stupid barbie dolls and to be made the centre of a circle with no purpose. Next time you scream at me for this, I'll be much worse than what I was today. 

Hemu 

Image from the internet 

Steam

Silent mirrors stay as a hanging witness, it's ornate wooden frame soaked 

in the moist of the hot vapours of water steaming hot; 

just not as much as the ones that ran down her cheeks.

She cries in silent desperation lying white lies hidden behind blatant 

words of consolation flying with the winds, unsated; 

for her ego approached none to let them be uttered. 

She wandered through roads she didn't know of, 

on swings high, not touching the ground..

in cemeteries overgrown with green and the dead 

and many a page's quick perusal 

while her soul flies elsewhere;

jumping signals and passing through 

small kids with blue balloons in their hands, a glee she once was. 

She sought out a way that will seep through the macabre of 

not realizing dreams or living a few words, 

to see some smiles and steal a few hugs..

She only has it just looking back through the reflection of someone

she barely knows;

Staring back..

a hazy form merging with dank tears and 

hot water running cold. 

Hemu 

                                          Image from the internet 

Jaunts waiting to be relished

To wander through streets lonely and full,
staring at passerby's with flaming red and soothing black hair
as the spaces next to my feet gets quickly filled with feet
holding and supporting heads held high and tears dropping low.
To be there for the unknown baby that unclasps her hands from
her mother to run on the grass;
to help her up as she falls while her gray eyes still gleam with joy,
to have that face registered in my memory, to forever remember that smile.
To have some tea in coffee houses as the snow falls slowly
scared if it'll hurt the earth;
to stare out of those huge glazed windows as the next page of my book awaits
in silent understanding of my thoughts that fall along with every snow flake
finding its journey to the next level.
To love the winding roads as they take me with it
like the curves of a woman on and off a diet,
to enjoy the sunshine that plays between my hair set free
To enjoy a bonfire with people I don't know of
and get drunk with all shots mixed
so that the dance in me mixes with the rising and falling fire
in its blues, yellows and orange.
while in the end I gaze at the stars and get myself lost in constellations
trusting the moon I love to take care of my guitar who lies alone
in the darkness that lives.
To eat food I haven't eaten before and laugh like I have never,
to dance and sing in speeding trains
as strangers smile in amusement looking at who might be a retarded girl
losing her mind over good ice-cream and waffle rolls.
And probably
while I walk back colourful alleyways and paved paths
to a house I don't know of,
I find someone who plays with baby monkeys and takes solitary walks
at the cemetery I land up at with a notebook in his hand.

                                          Image from the internet

~Hemu 

Her life that they paint...

She weaved a sheepish smile at the mention of his name,
and giggled like a girl unlike the laughter of a woman I wanted to see.
Screens acted as saviours and telephonic voices were all that she heard.
There are people around, friends and family
who know how she likes her eggs and the mood she is by her strewn slippers..
yet she seems to love that man who comes online
or who she meets with consent of families, a grown-up thing I never did understand.
What about silent glances and stealthy kisses?
Where is the secret of love?
I stare as blatantly as I can to grasp the system that keeps slipping off
my cheesy hands and
a heart very easily flattered by poetry.
I try to see the love, the fights and the memorable moments that shall flash
through her eyes as she gets married,
but what if there are no memories?
What if casual conversations are all that reach the mind that tries
to tame the already trained heart to bring out a questionnaire to know the other?
Where does that feral hope of every woman go,
the one who waits for a dashing young man to speed by and catch her unawares?
Probably there is some logic that my small (or fat?) head seems to reject...
It has created a population that beats most of the world.
All this picks up its pace in my jumbled brain as she bows down
with a twitch near the corner of her lips and a hesitant smile.
Waiting to start a new life with someone she may just hardly know.
I wonder if it works like a different kind of weed.. full of excitement and expectations..
I look through the falling petals
for I know the mehendi on her hands will grow red even if he doesn't know her...
but, will he stare at it smiling, looking at her and kissing them as they grow dry?

                                         Photo from the internet.

Hemu

Gasp. Sing. Live

As the fire still goes out continuously, dying out on its own self
I shall caress her strings till she sings out in joy..
I may not know her heart's notes or the right chords to pull
but I can create music out of her, like a mother can make a baby smile!
Singing to myself, the winds and the spray of water from the seas,
the sands shall dance in the light and I shall wave with her euphony.
I'll jump out of my soul to dance in the chilling night
looking at the woman playing with the a black body of sculptured curves
giving out ecstatic gasps of delight until she finds the next spot for her pleasure and mine.
I know she'll be lost in thoughts, fingers plucking on their own
while her mind wanders around the dark skies
and the pearl-white moon.. to the stars and her love.
The flames already reflect in her eternally awakened eyes while lips sing
as she falls into a sound oblivion...
while I dance in bliss!

~Hemu

Image from the internet.

Men, Women, Sex and Chauvinism

I had a text conversation with one of my friends some days back. It was in regard with one of my poems that I had put up earlier on my blog. From an outsider's point of view, it might have been a wholly feminist attitude, but to me it was sheer anger at women not being seen the way they should be or rather, being seen the way they shouldn't be seen.

  One thing led to the other, we had a good discussion on women, some meaningful conversations that I have with a few people until we reached a point where chauvinism came into blown up view. Not that it wasn't present until then for it is always a constant presence that runs in the sentences framed to express views. Or as I noticed, most of the conversations that the two sexes share falls into one of the following frames.. One with people who hate chauvinism (which mostly turn out to be women like me), one in favor of it (men and women who genuinely feel and think that women are meant to be under men) and the ones in between. Now, it's easy to argue with a male chauvinist for you can never possibly discuss issues with him/her. You see, most often, they never listen. What happens to begin as a discussion would lead to an argument where mindless shouting is all that is left at the end. I generally avoid discussions with such people. I just smile and walk away with a hidden smile of the knowledge that their thoughts always tend to amuse and baffle me. 

    

      On the other hand are my co-people, who are against chauvinism. We, for the record are not female chauvinists. I personally feel men and women are on two different standards altogether. One just can't be compared with the other. It was actually a late realization that I had, some years ago when a friend managed to knock that into my head which until then was hot with the ideas of equality among men and women. I used to think men and women are to be considered equal whereas the whole two groups couldn't be equated at all. One was different from the other. The grounds of measurement weren't the same. Though, I believe in both genders being treated equally. 

   

    Both these kind of people are easy to handle. It's actually rather simple. You either hate them or love them. The third are the difficult lot. They are those men and women who are in between. Out of the mass of this kind, its predominantly the men that I come across. I don't know how to almost always converse with them, given I don't know which side they are inclined to. These are the regular people I come across everyday. The boy-friends I know of, the educated uncles who fall here due to their age and all other sorts of people. I don't mean to offend them for it's with some of these people that I talk a lot, though it is difficult sometimes. I learn, I realize and feel more mature. 

     Well, as I was saying, I am guessing my friend fell in the final category of people. The conversation was smooth for when both parties involved talk with an open mind ready to accept something they are convinced of by the other.It did until I reached a point where it reached Women, men, sex and chauvinism. Women, men and clothes. Women, men and skin. 

      I think this is something I could never get or get over. The whole idea is rather muddled to me. I noticed that most of such people have an attitude that a woman whose skin you can see is either morally 'retarded' or a counterpart fully covered and clothed being a 'better person' upon the first impression. Agreed there are women who wear revealing clothes just to get attention or what not? But what about the ones who are comfortable in those clothes? What if that is what they are? Why doesn't it ever occur to people, men and women alike that a woman can wear clothes of her choice? Why does she have to be judged, stared at and be morally backward to wear clothes of her choice? How does it affect you lot? It's like judging a man and saying he is of the 'wrong kind' because he wears lungi and roams about bare-chested! 

   Of course, there's the anatomy. But is that the only thing? 

   And oh, coming to sex. Virginity in women is a prize for men. At least the one marrying her, right? Casual sex from the side of men is something that has been passed over as ordinary and 'ever-happening' while one move towards anything even hugely less in magnitude on the woman's side is wrong. And it beats me out, how the men always scorn and condemn those women a.k.a 'whores' they hook up with ? It existed generations back when it was broad daylight and accepted for being so. It exists even now, but just to be observed under microscopic light. The so-called broad-minded guys with trace amounts of chauvinism they so claim wouldn't take a girl who has been with another man, while he can have all the sex he wants in his life. Who's there to question? Why is it always down to women? The women of the kind is labelled a 'slut' with an intense connotation while the guy of the type is called a 'playboy' with some sort of pride. I really don't get that one. 

   The friend of mine had said it was for genetically good reasons, to safeguard women and the like of phrases which I found to be utter rubbish. Okay, working towards the society? What about that woman the guy just hooked up with? She doesn't count? (Unless 'she' was not a woman). My point here is not that me or many others like me(women) want to have sex and are fighting for the right to do so. One may exclaim : "Alright. Go ahead! I'm not the loser." This is not the point. Point is why is it right for men to do so, while a shame if women do. I'm from India, a land where women are taken to be Goddesses. Well, we don't want to be on that level but you could stop treating us like shit. How hypocritical can guys get?

   I meet multitudes of people. For all that I have known, I have hung out with more men than women. Let's say sometimes they are a lot more comfortable kind of people to be with. Brothers, friends.. everyone I have ever seen, ever in my life have chauvinism in them. Agreed you are born with it. You are brought up with it. But don't you have to evolve at some point of time? Open your eyes and see what is actually going on instead of you just judging the woman in shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt? Judgmental attitude, my friend is tiresome. 

   Please shrug off those covers of pretense that you have. I think all the lines of 'we do this to protect you' and 'I'm not the loser' are just pure crap. Try to respect the woman you see as a human. She surely is not a cross of the road-side 'bitch' and a chimpanzee. I'm sure you do agree with me on  that one? And at last, please stop acting like saviors. I know you are physically more strong and can ward off men who pose a threat to our 'honor' but that doesn't give you the right to define how we live. 

   Thanks to those hormone-raging men out there (I mean only those sexually perverted guys out there. Not everyone.) I can't travel the country or the world as I wish. I love, totally love being a woman. I'm so proud of being one. But sometimes it doesn't feel good when I'm made to regret for being born as one.  

 I hope I meet one guy who will know and feel the way I do about this issue. But I guess the other guys might not find him to be a guy/man at all. 

Anyway, cheers still! 

  

A Heart's Reach Away

Day by day, the hope and the tiny bit of light in
a crowded heart vanished to form a black hole
where a lot of happy memories emerge from, resurgent ;
unlike the voids that draw
only to submerge her in a vast pensive of loneliness.
 She feels left out, as a clown who is lost in the group and the ordinary,
quite strong in ideas that don't bend,
searching for that one another person who lives the way she does,
to live.. to laugh and smile.
She still goes around scanning through the known faces
searching for him.
Searching for that one person, who now loves another..
for that someone who dwells in the colourful tones of her dreams
and in reality, far away.
At the end of each day of hers, every fragment of his word and stare
pierces through her like a knife of ice to numb the pain
and melt away into water, keeping her eyes dry for a while.
That which was thrust through her; blaming an expectant love
who let it grow when she knew it should have died.
Oh yes! She should have stabbed it to death,
to have bled the little fairy-tale hope of him turning back to
offer her an exquisite glance,
so it would hurt only a stingy bit before it passes with the clouds.
She should have chopped the dreams while she was still asleep
  so that reality doesn't feel like a burdensome chore.
  Like the nightmare that she lives for real.

                                       
~Hemu

Image from the internet. 

The Wondrous Slut

You call her a slut, you call her a whore,
but that's all that you see and nothing more.
For, within every woman, slut or not lies a small butterfly,
waiting for the colours on her wings to show out
as beautiful as it is, while you just see a garish display
because that is all that your eyes can see.
Within every woman lies a mother, the most loving one in the world.
Sluts and prostitutes as you see or tag,
also gives out her blood to feed her baby as milk through breasts,
whose suppleness is all that you notice.
I see the mother. You see the slut.
I wonder at the ease with which words flow from your mouth
as your eyes trace the figure of a woman in the clothes of her choice
and the words of her own independence, may you be a man or woman.
Do you care to see the insecure little girl who misses her father's hug
or the flutters of the twenty year old she is as the secret glances of boys
follow the wind raising her nervousness?
You see a woman, a slut, a woebegone creature with blood between her legs as a knowledge
and smirk with disgust, twisting your face.
Ever thought about that small bloody pouch she is imbibed with,
waiting to carry a being far beyond her capacity, someone who could get her killed,
yet love it before it even reaches this planet that is one in a million.
You see women on the road, in the mall and on your front porch
seeking explanations for your stares for being who she is;
and all you can say is this : "Damn the freaking whore."
How long before you realize a whore you call is a woman too?
With flesh, bones, breasts and all that define her physically;
with a heart, a womb, some laughter and tears many unseen.
That, she rules her life and loves herself
more than the right which you assume to judge her
by the hip that moves as she walks on the stilettos in a manner befitting her or not.
She may leave her hair loose for the winds to play between the fibrous cracks,
she will raise her voice if you hurtle words that don't belong to her on her face;
She will not care about your useless existence if you are one.
And if all this makes her a whore, a slut.
A slut she is.
A wondrous one.

Hemu 

Woes of an Architecture Student : Site analysis

Dear Awesome Professors who think the sites you hand out are heavenly,

 I visited the site that you had 'sketched out' for us the other day. Architecture, despite draining all the senses we may have leaves us with a sense of hope and inspiration, a small little tiny factor called imagination. Of our designs. Our concepts. Our life. Today, seeing that brilliant site that you had so painfully 'discovered' for us, ( I must admit it is quite a discovery. It took quite some time for my friends and myself to locate the site in what seemed like a garbage disposal area) the very little idea of building something even in our dreams came crashing down.

    Would it kill you to give us a nice site for once? How is it that the other batches get scenic sea-facing sites while we land up with Koovam-facing ones? I mean, you give us such a site and say, "So, what are you going to do about the smell?" Well, we were thinking of room spray. (probably the one in which animated owls, bunnies and kangaroos are cast.)

  Anyway, let's concentrate on what is in our hands. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.(Even that sucks anyway.) It took us half an eternity to find out the preposterous dug-out land where you want us to build luxury apartments. A friend of mine told me  that the coconut-seller right outside the place (who also uses it as his private dumpyard, in Rajinikanth style flipping empty tender coconuts in the air ; beyond the compound wall where it lands with all the other useless things in life) welcomed her to visit the site. He seemed to have been accustomed to the students who come there, for god knows how many years. His hospitality and generosity amazes me. Has some deal been signed between the institution and the guy?

   The site, it so seemed looked like a green haven. Not just one shade of green, mind you. A lot of them. It so complemented what seemed like poisonous little trees all around and the different-coloured-stale-kurma-like mass of liquid/fluid. ( We didn't dare go close.) I could totally imagine the swimming pool that you want in the mass of moss floating on what seemed like a piece of earth tilled out to lay foundations for a dream castle to be built in the next century. There was just one small problem. If I could see the swimming pool, I couldn't see the building blocks and vice versa. Certainly, there is all the space in the world for me to design a wading pool and children's play area. Just when I was settling into the idea of consoling myself saying I could somehow squeeze all the requirements in there, a friend of mine said : "Hmm, so what will happen to the community centre?"

   I mean, how many people are we talking about here, man? Trust me, no one is going to buy a house here and most certainly, no one is going to indulge in the happy times of a society with all the noise and air pollution  from the road where even pedestrians might need sound horns and SARS-like masks to move an inch. What were you even thinking of? That we'll build something in the air eh? Actually, we don't mind. But, even in that, you'll ask for structural details.

   On top of all this, there is a transformer right in the front and huge, many-acres spreading out to form an industry on to the side releasing heat waves in the air. Exactly, which bugger told me that there were buffer trees over there? Open your eyes wide my dear friend, those are called overgrown saplings.

   The only thing good about the whole thing; well, probably not about the site, but just opposite to it is the pizza shop. Also, we might not have to do anything for building a basement. It's pretty much there. All you have to do is to just locate it among the trash. Still, if you want to provide all the services our senior design professor asked us to add for a qualitative living, I would suggest you look for extra site area. Maybe not a garbage chute. The place is pretty much one. We shall give you the liberty of just chucking it out of your windows. Whomsoever throws it the farthest shall earn a special bumper prize. You can take the apartment that faces the awesome coconut trees that might transport you to Mallu-land. Each day one-one person. Okay?

   Anyway, have fun. We shall soon inform you of our tempting design offers for luxury apartments in(out)side the city, where you can bring up your children in lush green landscaped areas with privacy exceeding any other, to grow up to all the difficulties of and in life. ( pun intended).

Site Analysis Complete.

         

Love, they said.

How long does he think I'll wait?
How do I know how long this feeling will hold on straight?
I was told by many I never knew, born ages back who just passed on words,
that love is a joy, love is a state of mind,
where two souls in their individualistic being should connect,
to blend into one happiness and a couch.
They also told me, it'll hit me across my face sometimes,
knock me down and rip my heart..
but I should stay calm. I must stay strong.
For destiny and endurance of rough winds
shall sweep me through to the sight I wish to dwell in.
They told me my love will come true;
that I need to hold on, He is just round the corner and
will see me standing here, waiting for him.
And, they also said, sometimes I'll just have to let it fly
before I could even clasp the colours in my hands.
My hands just seem stained and not coloured.
They said if I let it fly and if it belonged to me,
it'll reach back to the hands and heart that freed the aura-
to paint me with all the emblazon of its minuscule visibility.
Oh they told me too many things and now
I don't know what to do.
I don't  know what to say and what is due.
So,
as the oriflamme hues of the sky set to hide behind the veil of the unknown,
I slip into the covers of my insecurities, overflowing passion
and indescribable feelings for Him,
longing to see the next day reveal my heart without my consent
to His eyes so blind.

The F-word phenomenon

It's been quite a usage of the f-word today. Not the f-word that probably strikes your mind first. No, certainly not that one. I meant : Friendship. I heard too much of that today- Friends, friendship day, friendship bands, friendship texts, friendship wishes. Just a little less than truckload of viewing of the friendship day effects.
 
     Frankly, I didn't realize it was 'friendship day' today. I thought it was a week back and ended up texting four of my very close friends a genuine 'happy friendship day' message, meaning every letter of the three words, the spaces amplifying what I wanted to convey.. cherishing the journey we have had together until now. I have to tell you, I have amazing friends.Why? None of them knew when the 'real' friendship day was and ended up texting me back, from the various parts of India and Chennai that they live in, a happy friendship day. Cool friends I have.
 
    This evening brought me into an encounter with friendship bands after quite some time. Around three years or so, to be precise. Friendship bands. They share a great part of my childhood times and an even greater part of my growing adulthood. I remember how I used to buy wool and strings of different colours ; weaving and braiding them- making those bands by hand. I thought, it's for friends, it is a personal acknowledgement of how happy their company makes me. I used to make them day in and day out, with a definite list and later making a few extras for impromptu situations. Situations where someone who you totally thought would never tie you a band turns up beaming in front of you with one in hand. Sometimes, they're so genuine that you have to tie them one back. The entire school used to be bubbling with energy, recesses having corridors full of us kids with hands with colours and strings many. There were times when I even felt jealous about the numbers that reached my wrists and the varying others'.

    Now, I think about it all and realize how ridiculous it has been... how the notion had been etched in our minds, how friendship bands were given an importance which it didn't deserve(or it has lost it's importance- however you see it) and how blinded by numbers and popularity we were. None of those bands, as far as I know, carried a genuine happiness of having someone else as their friend. It was about popularity, establishing an unsigned official contract, joining in a rat race of being friends with the school stars and in the process of getting there too. Bands were just numbers- no significance, no friendship and nothing attached to it but strings. (pun intended) I suppose it still is. I don't know, I quit tying them. You can imagine the rest- no one else tied one for me as well. Ah, I'm glad as far as that goes.

  Think about it for a while, so many of you wish on the account of friendship day, do you mean it? Do you cherish that relationship you share? Does the other person make you feel special? Do you type that text out or was it a group forward that you forwarded too? Much better, did you end up sending it a few hours earlier just so that your balance doesn't run out because of the special text costs? Do you love them or respect them for who they are? Do you really feel the depth of the whole thing? Does a facebook tag of a friendship quote or picture signify what happens between you guys?

  Friends don't happen everywhere. Not everyone you meet are your friends. They're termed as acquaintances. They're people who you happen to meet everyday, every week and month. Time spent with someone everyday doesn't equate them to being with friends for a few hours every weekend or possible holiday. Next time you're about to wish someone a happy friendship day, think twice. If you have no reason, don't say it. Understand the depth of your words for half the time, we're here returning wishes we don't mean, cherishing memories we don't share and  giving away words that don't belong to us. People are special and so are the words. They are not free. They're worth every strain of the vocal word, every stab and smile of the heart and all the intimacy of the emotions fabricated just for them. =)

   

Unopen Wings

I saw this form in front of my eyes,
Majestic and elegant with wings flapping on her graceful back,
light reflecting like it hit a mirror shaped to the anatomy of a woman.
Warding anyone who came too close to her,
with only one fierce look with those black eyes that made them look away, only,
turning instantly gentle when they stood away.
She waded through waters and flew across the sky
grabbing the the warmth of light and the iced chillness of the wind,
throwing herself to the open pleasure of the world.
Until.
That one day when a man looked back into her eyes,
breaking free the glass over it, blasting shards into the endless valley's pits.
She looked, with different eyes at the man who gave it to her,
the fragile in her lived, still falling for the huge and muscular bird
who seemed to like his wings held within so that people may draw close.
And so, she pulled her wings to her back and around her breasts.
She waiting against the setting sun for him to draw near
and cuddle her to precious warmth of a genre different from what light gave her,
as an element in the air grabbed her by her wings
holding her over the edge of the cliff.
Flinging her down, to meet the violent seas underneath,
he looked over.
She was a bloody woman
who could have glided through it had she spread her wings.
Yet, she turned them close, to meet the jagged rocks that lay below.
Now,
Why would she do that?

So spake a building you think is one.

You think I don't know a thing, that I don't feel beyond what I'm made of. That's not true. I've experienced more than anyone of you can ever see, feel, hear or grasp. I've heard so many squeals of children running around, their cries when they fall down, the laughter of the old ladies who think they're cracking jokes when the younger counterparts grin in quiet tones at the befallen comment that isn't close to humor, the shouts of the people calling out to one another, the singing on one side and the instruments amplified in the presence of my greatness.
 
           I've seen many traditions, rituals, too many silent tears in the washroom confining many a people, individually, all of them crying inside and yet on the outside, pretend to be strong and smile in each others' presence. I've seen colour always : of flowers, clothes, lights and faces and what they contain, beautiful smiles of  blushing brides and more moving energy than all your lives put together in one fleet of running parents, striding across my magnanimous being to greet people and attend needs.

       Yet, after all the time I remain where I am, I still cry soft tears to see her go. A bride in her mother's arms seeking comfort and merely a shoulder to cry on. She cries, the one leaving 'home' , having to shrug all that responsibilities as a daughter to being a wife, though I know a daughter shall never forget them, and shall remain a daughter forever. I see mixed emotions in her eyes, that glint with happiness during the dance with her husband among the huge crowds that surrounds to cheer her and a large sense of sadness attached along with anxiety and fear. I've seen of every single 'Her' : a silent thought not to cry and induce the mood into others and yet breaking down at moments many. I sense, every single time that she can't sleep in total peace like when her father covered the sheets around her with a goodnight kiss, for she doesn't know if her husband shall do the same.

          I'm not concrete and brick. I'm emotions many, if you pause to rest your shoulder on me and look around. If you press your ears against my pillars of strength and listen. With every footstep you take, I have had so many others jumping on the same.. where you stand, that was where one girl fainted in her father's arms.. where you laugh-many have cried and where you hug, many of them had to be pulled free. I am not what you think I am.

         I've seen a little girl pulled free of her father's arms and thrust into another mans'. How the father has taken care of her, I've always seen.. it shows in the eyes and the tears and smiles she sheds. How the man does, I never know, for none of them fulfilled an obligation of coming back to me to whisper how they are. They think I don't live, they think I don't exist. I don't blame them,  for they are daughters leaving home. I shall remember every one of their tears that had been wiped off my floor with a mop, not knowing it had already reached my insides creating an imprint.
       With false promises and some true ones, they take her away from whom she loves to someone she'll learn to love. She cries, silently and breaks down again as she gets into the car to drive away into nothingness for a few more minutes before she realizes what's happening.. and as the car gets out of the driveway I tend to hear loud cries and huge tears from the sisters of the bride... ones who, with great difficulty held them all back so that they don't cry in front of her making her departure more painful.

   I see this, day after day, hour after hour.. one wedding after the other. I never shall get tired..for each bride has a tale to tell, moments to share, hours of fatigue, and one instance that they all share.. leaving home. At that juncture, I become their homes, for the second they wave a bye to their crowded families, who with moist eyes and a smile on their lips, wave back till the car goes out of sight and sometimes even minutes after.
   I hope they are all happy somewhere, with children who'll grow up to get married the same way they did. They have always been my favorite. The daughters leaving home..
  Even if they're across the road with roaring traffic, I shall still hear them say with nostalgia  :
"There! That's where I got married"
   

This was my entry at Saarang Writing Awards 2013

Of Creating a Memory

Take me, with my eyes covered, so I feel and know you are always there next to me..

Take me, anywhere, where the sounds cease to exist

throwing the music of silence into our ears, amplified,

that way, every word you say, will reach my heart.

Let's go around the same way, describe what you see, 

'cause I'm comfortable with my eyes closed and hearing you say 

things you don't even see. But, I'll believe you anyway. 

Let's go away from prying human eyes and live, 

with no cameras to record the moment, 

no sketchbooks to replicate..

Just you and me. 

Now, that'll be a memory I'll never forget.

 ~Hemu 

I Wish I Were a Waitress

I wish I were a waitress, in a swishy skirt and an apron,
a ceiling above my head and a floor I can skid on,
to run around taking down requests for consumption
and not orders, for I shall say they're long gone.

I wish I were a waitress, with a smile on my face,
jumping from table to table, lighting up their day.
"Oh, how are we today?" I shall ask, with some little ace,
Now, who bothers about that, as long as I can keep their frowns at bay.

I wish I were a waitress, for a childhood fantasy of balancing trays
should probably not go in vain, but if I go ahead and fall with drinks on my dress,
I shall still smile and clean it up.. I tried atleast, and shall say my prayers
to stay further and shall always try again, till I get it right for the best.

I wish I were a waitress, to meet people old and new,
to look at their countenances and see what they have to say.
For, discoveries shall be many as I shall write them down as the coffee brews,
so that I can do little things that I may, like perhaps wish them a 'Happy birthday'.

I wish I were a waitress, for a selfish reason of seeing around,
people as they are and people they probably ought to be.
To see if I am wrong at being so shut, to be in solitude even in a crowd,
or if I should be singing with them all for a great day to follow, whoopee.

I wish I were a waitress, for a simple little joy of wearing hair bands everyday,
not that I can't at an office desk on the eleventh floor,
but for lame reasons to match my equally lame colours at a small cafe,
then, life probably shall not be such a bore.

I wish I were waitress, I shall always stare at the presentation of my dishes,
which shall only connect as one semi-solid mass on the insides..
I think that is how I want my life, handed out on a clean plate and decked with wishes,
but to realize it's all those put together that gives me the taste. Sugar and salt.

I wish I were a waitress, for more reasons than one,
for I can play with little babies's cheeks as I pass,
to sometimes skid my shoes through the floor and sometimes run,
to hop on one leg and sometimes even do a chasse.

I wish I were a waitress,
so that I shall never be in distress,
 and even if I do, I shall drink down a gentleman's tea,
and be as happy and full as I can ever be.

A Shadow

I saw someone come with me all the while I walked on the streets so hot,
smaller in form, darker in shade..
Why she kept following me, I just don't understand.
Growing inch by inch, throwing her magnificent self across my body,
her details blurred, yet her form so clear, I saw her live
as she swallowed the light, holding it in her pit.. the illuminating rays so bright.
She kept ahead of me, holding my legs in her black mass..
and I just followed her wherever she went for the rest of the time, lit,
unable to leave her to her dark mates hidden in the narrow alleys and masses of opaques.
I thought she was weak, clinging to me like a filthy little rag,
sticking by the legs of a person she never knew.
But, I saw the fact that I couldn't get rid of her, try as I might,
until, she decided it was time.
Hours rolled and she started running behind me, like an unknown bond,
unable to let go of me...
An unacknowledged bond just like my hand or my sight,
only, she couldn't see, blind in her path that saw only me and no one else.
The evening sun set as I paced my footsteps faster,
in an urge to take her to safety, an incomprehensive love taking over me...
to let her live.
She didn't sense my efforts as she diminished, little by little,
her feet growing small with a shaded snake
grabbing her legs so taut from under my trousers.
I quickened my steps, wanting to see,
that mysterious entity, live with me...
and yet, she died. There. Right in front of my eyes,
falling apart, disappearing into the black of the tar of the roads..
screaming for help and searching for light.
I scrambled on my knees catching at her waist when her belly exploded
and all of her swallowed light flew,
catching my hair in its golden rays, merging with the black around.
To see her last sprinkles dissolve into thin air that hosts the unending black.
I shrieked for company and tried to hold on to her,
but she only slipped away, like an element so free.
I envied her freedom from where I knelt, vanishing into substances
and wetting my cheeks with hot tears streaming
at a demise so unknown...
Merely to realize, that she was bound.
Just the very next day clinging to me, yet again.
She went on to live without the botheration of having to die.
She just, held on to my physical existence, recognized
for I think she knew my soul might not cast any for others to see and sense.
She lived, a constant reminder of a nagging thought that I don't understand,
until she clung to the trunk of a huge tree,
throwing me into darkness.

~ Hemu 

Dazed

What if I don't know want from need,

what if I can't see from desire and destiny?

For there runs a thin line as the heart does bleed,

to see the difference, to know if it's just a brevity.

I've told myself that there lies a sheaf of papers waiting for me to write,

to talk to it's lines and blanks, to create a new life,

yet, when I lift up the weightless flow of words to indite

I see all the articulate gushing in your way, in a rife.

What if I tell you I'm just accrued inside out,

with so much living, so much to show

all the sorrows of a hidden heart, only scared of the following flout,

a person who works from inside, driven by an urge to know.

For, every time I look at the midnight stars gleaming a little blue,

like my face, asking me to go ahead with what might be mine,

I stand still with the blowing winds, for I've heard dreams come true,

But what do I do, if there is someone else, whose heart too, in the same direction as mine, does incline?!?

Scarred

I know a girl.
A girl not too little, not too old enough.
For, under the bandeau she wears, there lies a heart
that makes her run out to soak in the rain and play on swings so high.
She knows there might be a rapist there at her door for all that she knows,
yet can't deny him water when he asks for some, worn out and tired.
I don't know if she has ever grown up,
that little girl I know, not bothered by inhibitions others throw at her,
she lives, not for survival,but for living alone.
On the swings she plays, there lies her soul jogging up to the sky,
in umpteen attempts to let go and fly, yet clings on to the body it knows,
just so that she wouldn't be left alone.
That soul knows she'll be hurt, that the swing will one day give away,
people she loves will hurt her hard,
so that when she falls face down on the earth..
and that when she gets up,
 they'll look at her bemired face in colours not hers and laugh.
Her soul told her,
"Little girl, don't be so dulcet.
They're going to punch you with words you wouldn't have heard before,
with smirks so scathing that it can flake the layers of your heart.
Stay with me, I'm not going to go, I'll be there only for you."
The little girl I knew stood up on the inside of her eyes and cried,
"Oh let's not be cynical. Stay with me and I'll show you what it is that I love,
apart from you without who I can't last.
Be by my side and I'll show you the little world I can experience,
but only with your help."
Saying so, she ran out into the open meadows in a flimsy shift,
oh, under that bandeau., she ran out unprotected, into the sun and rain.
Sun gave her strokes and the rain blew her over with storms,
yet, she went on not realizing, what she was headed for.
Her face immaculate and her soul
near to being convinced,
of all the happiness in the world.
She grabbed those ochre ropes to fly
into the blues she always thought was just a moment's reach away.
But as she flung herself above, they snapped like an angry dog,
throwing her a few feet across, to hit against the rock she loved sitting on.
A gash ripped her cheek.
She cried on the flowers whose colours she loved.
Her soul picked her up and she ran.
Ran till she reached the singing creek so clear.
She peeped and saw the girl, in blood and pain.
No wind blew to wipe away her tears
nor did anyone come to pick her up.
She washed her face, her whites now stained.
I saw that girl who I thought I knew.
I look at her reflection, her scars now healed,
but a part of her soul lost forever.
Damn. I thought I knew this girl looking back at me,
as I looked upon the soul I loved look back at me,
not blaming me,
but cried in silent sobs..
I only thought I knew for.
I hurt her and I never even knew.
Oh, so who do I even know?
Me or the one in the mirror?

~ Hemu

Unseen Tears

There survives a clown.

Colours so bright on his clothes

and people's smirks so humiliating and full of glee, 

when they see that painted face..

in red, green and vivid colours 

showcasing the stark reality of human emotions,

ones that they find so entertaining.

Exaggerated eyes, open to happenings, 

Ears that listen to what they have to say..

Hair of Nature's vibrant hues, 

catching and grabbing everyone's attention- To be laughed at.

He is who they call a clown...

In funny clothes and a big red  nose, 

which manipulates a smile on their faces..

On this stage, he brought out his caliber, 

Qualities that were surpassed upon as yet another cheap trick to make them laugh..

The world's sadistic thoughts and pleasures were revealed,

when they see him jump up and down, to fill his stomach..

coz then, they laugh till their stomachs ache.

Masses just fall off their chairs, laughing at his antics

and the talent that they don't realize,

just seeing that smile. A powerful one.

At the end, they get up to leave, 

not bothering about a man who is calling for them to stay,

or a hug to share,

or a mere handshake to remember.

All that they did was, still laugh at his face.. 

and the bogus walk that he possessed.

Everybody was convinced of the large smile painted on his face,

that just smiled despite sad drooping lips and looks.

Nobody cared to come near,

assuming the happiness he faked.

For,
Had they come near and seen a little farther, 

they would've seen and felt

the tears dying into a ground so moist.

It's just tears flowing free...

beyond the painted smile that they all just see.

Hemu 

The Roadside Whore

I had never seen such a man before, 

in all epitome of his handsomeness, and a smile that washed ashore worries.

I called forth to him, while he stood at the end of the street, 

by the lamp post crossing his legs and staring at me. 

My rouge grew redder, like I've never felt before,

I set my hair, smoothening my curls looking at the man. 

Not knowing if a second call would be needed,

So, I just stood watching his body, naked behind the clothes I shed from my vision. 

He looked like a man of word, more than flesh,

as I hoped what he would be, in all his being. 

He would be different I hoped, a writer perhaps, 

documenting miseries and glees. 

Perhaps, he'll understand my pleasure at seeing a man like him, 

a man in that black suit pressed to the last crease now invisible. 

As my thoughts grew, he walked towards me, 

holding a smile that kindled my inner soul.

What if he was the one? What is this was it ?

I held my breath as I walked with him as he slipped his arm around my shoulders, 

unlike the other men who walked away from me, 

only meeting me in a cramped place so desolate. 

Probably he is, oh, he is. 

We walked somewhere, I don't know where, a man with me, 

who didn't throw me dirty looks, looked at me as a woman. 

Like a person who knows what femininity means. 

Into his room, I waited for him to say something.

Yet, there were no words.

He tore my blouse down to mere shreds of cloth, 

releasing himself from the stiff clothes.

Raw feelings grew as we hit the bed, him biting away at my flesh, 

full of meaning. Everything he did, was a feeling 

I had never felt before in my life. 

Our bodies locked, the world faded as I gave myself to him in a way 

I never gave myself to anyone else. 

More than mere flesh, more the lips to tear open. Something beyond.

Something special. Something like him. 

Hours passed and the rage subsided as he slid out of the bed, 

bereft of a blanket around us, there is nothing to hide. Nothing to conceal. 

Fumbling into his pants, he looked at me through the dim light.. dressing back to what he was. 

He stabbed into his pockets bringing out some pieces of highlighted papers. 

And kept them in front of me. 

I stared up in shock and nodded, acknowledging the pay. 

He pulled his coat over and adjusting his tie, 

just like before, dressing in perfection, just like the 'perfect sex' he just gave me. 

Only now, there were creases on his coats, that stood out laughing at my face. 

Laughing at my crumpled hopes.

He turned and walked away without a second glance, 

as I sat naked, my face down in disappointment. 

But I won't cry, I won't lament.
For I've seen more than this. 

I'm the roadside whore, calling out to you, 

I, who fake groans and moans in bed. 

I, who still search for miracles everyday.

Waiting for it to hit my bed before another man does. 

For, I'm the roadside whore calling out to you.  

I shall live. I shall fight. 

For, I'm the roadside whore calling out to you.