Wings

Terribly Tiny Love Letters 09: Love Loaves

There is a lilting memory from my pauses at a bus stop.
The smell of bread loaves being baked travels through the air,
across and around where I stand.
I've never seen this place that bakes this best smelling sweet bread
and I know not the origins and the special ingredients.
I wonder if it tastes as good as it smells: like heaven,
because
I've never tried to follow the music of these loaves;
only content to take in the smell and imagine its taste
during an everyday interim.
Just like how I've had you in my heart and thoughts
all this while;
dreaming in real life and living there
while you, my love, loaf around
outside my reality.

~Hemu

Image Source: http://stjohnstreet.co.uk/pictures-next-stop-brick-lane/

Terribly Tiny Love Letters 08: A Nameless Stupor

When the window panes are raised and the doors are firmly shut,
when I’m locked away in this little world of mine
I shout out your name
because I’ve not said it aloud enough times.
I’ve not heard my own voice
say it such that I can hear it hanging
around me;
and so,
in the silence of a shut car,
I say your name that echoes in my ears
a time or two
to hear how it sounds coming from my lips
and aloud
in difference to
the thousand times in my mind.

~Hemu

Image credits: Madame De Papilon

Power-Cut Epiphanies

   A couple of nights back, the power unexpectedly shut down at around 11.00 pm much to the exasperation of my parents and with an hour in passing, myself too. I am generally the sort of person who spends long hours on the terrace just staring at the moon, content in solitude and away from the blaring noise of the television; happy with a cup of tea and some music. Hence, the power cut didn't quite matter to me as much as it irritated my parents as they both had work the next day and this power-cut was cutting in on their beauty sleep. (I've no permanent day job, I'm a freelance artist and architect and I'm not bound by fixed working hours)

   Madras in June is no easy deal. It's hot, humid and gets you sweating even in the middle of the night. I had my parents join me on the terrace in sometime; my father circling around and looking at whether the power had come back on by peeping from the parapet, restlessly. (Appa, I know you're reading this. You got to slow down and sit down, really!) My mother on the other hand, conveniently sat down without any ado and I quickly settled down next to her. With some time in the passing, it was just me and my mother on the terrace as my father had gone back downstairs again. By then my phone had entirely run out of charge and resigned to the whims of the fellows at the Electricity Board, I spread out a scarf and we both laid down on the terrace, simply with nothing to do but stare at the sky.

    It was a full moon night and quite radiant all around. The light from the moon was good enough for us to see each other, the washing lines flying above our heads and the swaying tree tops. As it has been so with the weather in the last week or two, there were dense grey clouds hovering about, ready to drizzle away with the slightest coaxing.The clouds were different shades of grey and there was one even with a deep hint of red hue. The breeze was to a minimum and attended to our perspiration at its own pace.By then, we'd grown comfortable to being out there under the open skies and had begun to point out to the shapes of the clouds and what we thought we saw.Dogs, ghosts, a lady sitting... it was as if we'd unfurled our inner children from our hearts. You'd be surprised how clouds, the moon and the sky can shift the direction of a light conversation into the heavy thinking zone. Soon, we began speaking about lot of random things. Work, my future studies to come, life, her past, my present, the lives of my friends... and I realised how long it's been since we actually got to do that. It was truly brilliant to bask in the moonlight and have midnight conversations with my mother in an age where technology seems to eat up most of our time, with or without our own knowledge. We only ended up going downstairs after about two hours when it did, indeed start drizzling and I had to prod my mother to get up. (Let's go once it starts raining heavily, she said.) 

   In the meager hours we have outside of work, much of our time goes in watching television, the everyday serial and soap operas, text messages and Whatsapp groups, laptops and anything plugged to electricity. Some days, my father wouldn't have time because he'd be tending to the washing machine or my mom would be watching something online as she cooked away or I'd be glued to the laptop randomly browsing my time away. In a world this fast pacing, we've reached the stage where it takes something as external as the EB department to put us together with no other option than to talk, to interact and get back to the roots of what we are. I still remember those times when there were mandatory power cuts in Tamilnadu everyday. We had our work planned around it and in a way, I grew rather accustomed and appreciative of those two hours a day.We actually did things outside of technology. But I believe now, that we're back to square one. It's time to set the ball rolling one more time, with attempts from our side.

   This is no great flowery post with fancy words or any poetry but a simple reminder to all of you and myself that we need to keep technology at an arm's length from our personal lives. There is so much to talk about and love. When a phone is out of the picture, you wouldn't be thinking of how nice a shot of the moon would be as an Instagram post but rather be enjoying the beauty of the night itself. I urge you all to let go of your phones, IPads, televisions and computers for some time everyday and do other things you used to indulge in as a child... reading, painting or this real-life interaction called talking with others.

Get back to real social life, my friends.

Love,
Hemu

Source: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/4e/d9/26/4ed9269da2819465a76fd6643f4e7085.jpg

Terribly Tiny Love Letters 07 | A Flaw SO Beautiful

Found the image on https://kidim2013.wordpress.com/tag/sahil/

I like those nights I make my tea perfectly.
I take a sip and realize that it's piping hot;
quite resonant
to a momentary scandal to my lips
when I drink from its deep end.
Like you and me.
Memories of you come rushing back
at the heat of that moment
and just so you know,
you come with all other things
flawed
and
beautiful.


~Hemu 

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 

Calling Bluff

I see Him building his muscles instead of his conversations,
treading only along narcissistic monologues with a mirror.
I see Her pounding herself to suit her waist to being slim or curvy
or whatever is in vogue,
hoping that a thigh gap will
ironically seal the distance towards Her search.

In the end, neither eyes meet in an occupied glaze
and if only their gaze meets but for a second,
He dismisses Her for a desultory accumulation of layers
with nothing vulnerable underneath
and She goes in search of an intelligent man in spectacles,
wielding a book and a charming lilt in his words.

Source: Hemu's Art Blog
Image should not be reproduced without permission 

~Hemu 

Terribly Tiny Love Letters 05: Abandon

I had at a point grown into the opinion
that I lusted after you
until
I simply got reminded later on,
what this had initially been.
When I sat loosely next to you
allowing a slouch to live its lazy life in its acme,
letting my head rest on your shoulders
with no regard to the angle of my face
or the countenance's perception
to your eyes;
I let me eyelids droop for that one moment
trusting your presence next to me.
That's when I realised that that
what I really longed and long for
is someone to sit next to,
with abandon.

Source: Watermarked. Image from the internet 

Hemu

Penury

It has become necessary for you to climb the corporate ladder

and quit in time when there’s a safe stack of money ready to hold you if you fall;

when you begin to chase long lived dreams of staring at the stars in multiple countries

from under canvas tents, atop motorbikes and by campfires.

Should I throw away what I shouldn't have had in the first place

with the only means to chase my dreams being the ideal fall

of chasing sunsets and sunrises, meeting new people

and dining on different tables, settings with wine, tea and cheese?

Would the world say I followed my dream by deciding to throw away a luxurious life

that I never wanted

or that I settled for the penury that I deserve? 

Image copyrights in the picture itself. 

~Hemu

Terribly Tiny Love Letters 04 : Chemistry

    Sometimes into the night, I wonder how I'd explain what we had in my mind. I can't talk about how you were an ocean to me because honestly, it's scary and I can't really swim that well. I realized you're not adorned poetry with difficult words that one has to look up in the dictionary; that by the time one figures out what it means, the moment is gone without any explanation. I don't think of massive forces or the macrocosm when I think of you, nor butterflies and flowers.

    What I'm reminded most when I think of you are those higher secondary school's chemistry equations. I wasn't a fan of the subject but this equation-solving was intriguing and enjoyable. There was always a sense of mystery, of many cryptic possibilities and an unrest you feel until the equation is finally balanced. The content you feel after solving one and the urge to start another. That how it felt like to love you.

Sated and insatiable at the same time.

Source: Wallpaper on Google Images 

~ Hemu 

(You can find the series that I've started, of 'Terribly Tiny Love Letters' on my Instagram page: http://instagram.com/hemuvenkat      

Cheers!) 

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 

The Words You Say

 | If the words you spoke appeared on your skin, would you still be beautiful? 
I found this quote, so far shared as an anonymous one on one of my Pinterest browsing days. I can't even begin to express the kind of impact this single line has on me, never leaving my mind; only permitting me to constantly picture myself with all the words I say everyday, on my skin. Would I still be beautiful?  | 

We live in a world that is extremely fast-pacing, with more faces unregistered as we pass by everyday and words that escape us without any filter that we don't really pause to think about the effect we have on another person's thoughts and image of themselves.

   I can't probably explain this better unless I bring my case into the picture. I was (and still probably am) a very loud child in my days of growing up. I spoke to everyone without inhibition, believed that everyone I meet are my friends and that this world is a lovely little place. This optimistic outlook on life was not met on the same terms with everyone. I loved talking with people about anything and everything. I'd ask doubts during classes at the silliest levels if I didn't understand a concept. I didn't think it was a big deal, really. Why else were we in school? Owing to this, I was thus called the 'Doubt-mistress' of my class, not to forget 'Chatterbox'. During extremely boring sessions, my classmates used to nudge me and say, 'Hey! Ask some doubt and pass some time. This is getting really boring'. To that, there have been times when I have obliged and had my own share of fun. It's all very nostalgic when I think about it now.

   While all those happy memories live on, the problem arises when the invisible boundaries are crossed and kids or anyone for that matter, don't realize the impact of what they say. Sometimes people shrug off insults and name-calling with ease on the outside while it would tear them up on the insides. Being branded talkative wasn't something that got under my skin but the lightness with which everything I said was. It was/is hurtful to have people ignore, override and consider what you say to be unimportant without even listening to it. It still hurts me. I have been through it and so do so many other children and adults who in everyday of their life, undergo their own such battles.

   We fail to comprehend the impact our words have on another person's life. Bullying,stereotyping, limitless teasing and condescending attitudes are all a part of this spectrum of failing to grasp this simple working of the world and people. When I look back at my school life, I wonder if my own friends have been passive bullies in a way, forever scarring parts of my memory. I have learnt to live with it and accept the factors of age and maturity with it but it would not be true to say that it doesn't have any impact on me. After all these years, it still does. I believe that I have matured into a different person because of and despite all these occurrences, but who is to say that everyone will get out of the pit of name-calling and being slighted?

  We have no filtering system in our heads, most often. I have had my friends tell me how hurtful it is to be stereotyped on looks, mannerisms and characteristics. A very close friend of mine told me how it gets to her that everyone she meets comments on her physique and not on her lovely character that I personally know of. Gay. (I still don't understand why it grew into an offensive word) Fat. Ugly. Pimpled. Talkative. Duffer. How quick we are to categorize people into slots and call them so in a jiffy! Do we realize that it could potentially create low self-esteem and confidence, depression and other psychological effects for the rest of the other person's life?

  A lot of you may think that you know when you cross the bounds of your 'good-natured' humour. Honestly, most of you might not be aware of the subtle but strong impact your comments and sarcasm creates in your own good friends from work or college. Maybe you could ask them once in a while. Even the strongest of people you think aren't affected by the world's perception of them are at some level,are indeed affected by it. So, before you unleash some laughter for yourself at another person's expense, you could think about it again and see in retrospection, if it might hurt your friend in some manner or the other.

 I tell you all this because I have been subject to much of this and know how it hurts. I have known other strong people in my life very close to me describe how it goes with them. I'm sure you know what I mean. You may be bullying someone else without your own knowledge, creating such a deep impact that hurtful words from decades back still ring loud in their ears, after all this time. But so do the really good words. They stick around from the most random times in your life. Small words create a great impact.

I ask you now to think of all that you say to people on a daily basis. Think. If all of that appeared on your skin, would you still be beautiful?

Beauty is not skin deep.

Next time, if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.

P.S: Don't confuse all of this with a dogmatic attitude or a person who cannot accept constructive criticism or good-natured humour between friends. There is a huge difference between what I'm talking about and all of this.

Original Artwork by Hemalatha Venkatraman. Copyrighted. Do not reproduce without permission.
 Find it on : www.hemusartblog.tumblr.com

Home

  How could I forget that night? It was exactly ten days since my grandfather had passed away. I was close to 1400KM away from home at Bombay, unable to sleep; merely staring at the wall a little before midnight. There was a sense of melancholy and wishful dreaming over my head. My teammates were fast asleep, heads buried in makeshift pillows. It was January; the floor was as cold as ice but yet, vaguely comforting.

  Silence screeched as the wall suddenly lit up to life, reflecting the warm hues of an oriflamme presence somewhere. The sound of the crackling rose up to the second floor apartment where we lay as the fog lifted, disintegrating into nothingness in the face of the bonfire built out of all which held people back.

   Bhoghi, the harvest festival, had dawned. It was midnight as heavy drumming began to sound, awakening the sleeping souls to stare out into the dark; where below, there lay a mound of light and lilt. Smiles cast invitations even when we couldn't see. We ran, our flip-flops slapping the bare mosaic flooring. The sound of the dholaks and laughter intensified with every step of ours, the excitement building. I rolled out only stopping to a reckless halt before the fire. The flames, a feet away leaped about, taller than I was, a fourteen year old girl in disarray. A Sardar, otherwise camouflaged by his beard and black turban smiled through it, holding out sweetmeats to me.The flames blazed higher, smoke spiraling into the vast sky charring the past and ready for the future.

    Slowly, the other state gymnasts descended the stairs and gathered around smiling, laughing and chattering away. Girls who would otherwise be dressed like dolls before the floor exercise performances began to dance in baggy pajamas and disheveled hair holding hands. My hands slowly slipped into theirs, strangers I didn't know in a place I wasn't really acquainted with. All I knew then was that the sound synced with my heartbeat and that the dance came from within.

It didn't matter that midnight in a strange place that I was holding hands and dancing with strangers. It didn't matter how close I was to the fire that night because I didn't feel any heat, only the warmth. It didn't matter that night that my grandfather was dead. I learned to laugh out loud again after a ten-day hiatus. It didn't matter that I was celebrating the festival away from home because, that moment in the dark when all our eyes met lingering with joy, shining in untamed light, I felt at home.  

Source: GOOGLE IMAGES. I do not own this image.  

~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

Mirrored

Image Credit: Laura Williams

If you mirror me and I see your soul,
will I be looking at you or me?
Or,
do you think, maybe it'll be a pensive
of your confident being mixed with mine;
filling it up with stars
where my insecure spirit leaves a hole?






~Hemu 

Karna

|This happened to be a piece I'd penned last year right after I read this book called 'Mrityunjaya-The Death Conqueror'. The life of Karna is one of the most fascinating and tragic stories I've ever come across. He happens to be my most favorite character in The Mahabharata alongside Draupadi and Krsna. I keep attempting to sketch him again and again and never have I been satisfied with what I complete as it never seems to represent him in entirety. The artwork can be found on my blog, here. Cheers! Revel in His life, for it's complicated and beautiful. |



What is more trying by destiny, oh warrior

 than to be painfully oblivious to the origin of your birth?

You who slayed vice with smoldering golden rays

later blanketed in the smog of your munificence

sparked from vanity leased out in thy head;

exorcising material despair,

subduing with grains of praise the

licking ravage flames in your chest,

under the gilded skin armour, shut.

What could have been more ruthless

than the rejection of the dark-skinned maiden-

flinging insults like dung to a damp wall

while your strength lay untested and unapproved?

The woman you loved and hated within eons;

that your brothers  five later betrothed ,undivided

only to garrote you to shameful death.

What decremented your virtuous soul further?

the culminated fury abreast constant light

of doubt-ridden guilt about your legacy

Or losing your honour to jealousy

Beginning a vow out of an unnecessary jabbering

of the tongue unsaddled by righteous thought?

And when you saw your confounded flaws

mirrored on the deceitful glass of an angered moment,

You saw the image that your blue-skinned kin saw,

an enemy you endured with till your

chariot broke

while fighting with the universal wheel of time-

the only aid to defend the dead in you.

There were those grains of sand that fell through

the goodness, your blood dripping onto the muddy moulds

fusing towards an unjustified departure

defended in the karmic book of a godly conman.

The hourglass now contains merely light

in honour of a hero, tragic 

thus denied a deemed title

because his own blood feared the words

out of an unworthy stranger, spitting in the air.

~Hemu 

Source: Vimanika Comics