Fathers and Daughters

Father warned me against writing political poems.
“Rather,” he said, looking out the window “Write about rains”
And I could see rains unable to wash away some stains
There are wailing walls, and wailing words
Like wails from the heart of Syria.
But, we force our minds to focus instead on the thin film of dust gathering on the TV screen,
still unable to shut the news.

Father picks up the paper instead, "Documenting is easy.
It always has been. Easy to write from a distance.”
I thought, however, “Who was left to document?
Lankesh’s smiling face on the first page, saying ‘Journalist shot dead’
Kalburgi shot at, straight into his head.

My father frowns at me,
“You do not understand.
Metaphors that begin with, for example, the sea".
He believes in the sea.
But stories only get preserved in the rocks and salt.
And I drink stories like I drink water
After 16 hours of fast on a harsh summer day.
I can lift my head up to drink
Even from a pair of parched lips
And, if politics in India flows like water, where in it is my fault?

My father shakes his head "Stories corrupt you, they scar you"
They have always left you bruised
And haven't those bruises brought us closer?
With each bruise you wiped with your antiseptic solution
Didn't you ask for the stories hidden in them?
"They will give you more of these" has always been his concluding remark
"India is best when we do not discuss the politics of it"

India, however was best known to my grandfather
It was the cataract living in his eyes.
He grew up in the village, learning the name of each root of the old banyan
He breathed in the rustic village air which carried the scent of peace
He could quote Ghalib in everyday conversations,
Yet conversed in fluent Angika with the old village herder
His erudite knowledge, simply a matter of humility.
That small world he was part of, and which was a part of him
Became the best version of India for him.

My uncle, today while returning from Grandpa's grave,
removed his skull cap before stepping out.
For he had seen a crimson stained cap,
lying among the debris on the train tracks.
And, a blood- soaked jigsaw moon appear on the sky,
pieced together by a thousand hollowed out bones.

I saw the sky too.
Already crowded by pieces of cartridges,
Shards  of bombs and blood of many.
And I still tried to shut my mouth, but my tongue had no more room for the scars.
So, we roared.
This time, like the sea, the way my father wanted,
Like rain pouring out its pain.
The moon shivered as we rose, and the sky boomed with our political echoes

Iqra Raza

An Open Letter

Pakistan is celebrating its independence day today and no, Indian Muslims are not. And if this fact surprised you, then this letter is for you

The much awaited, much cherished dream of Independence of the country came at a huge cost i.e. partition of India and Pakistan. A tragedy of such magnitude that it rendered black, all that had previously been seen as a reason for much happiness and rejoicing. Thousands of lives were lost on each side as Hindus and Muslims struck at each others' hearts with equal hatred and violent, brutal force. No, I do not want to go into the details of the violence, for I'm sure you know it too. That black day, following independence has been etched into our memories forever. Even though, I have thankfully not been witness to it, I still see harrowing reminders of it, for example in each rhetoric of "Go to Pakistan".  I'm terribly sorry for disappointing you, but I can NEVER go to Pakistan, and here's why.

Pakistan was the promised utopia, that our ancestors chose NOT to go to. The 'always already Indian' Hindus were not given a choice. But, we on the other hand CHOSE to stay in India, our country; despite being offered another land. Who sounds more patriotic? And before I get more hate comments, my ancestors did not go because they trusted their Hindu neighbors. That despite the madness that had gripped the masses, their old friends with whom they might have shared the siwayian and prasad, the khajoors and laddoos; will not turn against them- and they did not. Despite the dark times, lamps were still lighted in these small Hindu- Muslim families without the fear of being pulled out and beaten to death. When Maulana Azaad stepped up the dome of a mosque and called out to the Muslims going to Pakistan "yeh masjid ki minaarein tumhein awaaz de rahi hain", it wasn't just a call to stay back, it was a call to trust. Trust the neighbours you grew up with. Trust the land you were born in. Trust the countrymen who bled with you during the independence struggle. And my ancestors, and those of other Indian Muslims chose to trust. And there can be no greater proof of our patriotism. For, patriotism doesn't only mean love for the country but it also translates into love for its citizens. And it was this love for the country we had fought for and for its people alongside whom we fought that made us stay. And we have never ever regretted that decision.
People look up to us, rather suspiciously even during India- Pakistan matches, as if we'd secretly pull out a Pakistani flag and start waving it around. No, we don't. Pakistan has not given us anything, except meme material. It is in India that we have our homes and hearts, and it will be always be India, never Pakistan.
I was born in a village where the old Debo Nana never missed our home while distributing prasad during Chhatt Pooja and Siwayian at our home on Eid. And if this sounds extraordinarily utopic to you, then you're the intended person for this letter and if you feel bad/ guilty/ sorry for having a wrong image of us, congratulations you're an Indian. If not, do question your patriotism please. 

A Mad Woman's Love Statement

That night when darkness came down like thunder, swooping on us like this huge Falcon who just wants to tear flesh apart and smell the blood and feel the hardness of the bones. When your hardened skin roughed around the curves of my camptodactile finger, a vestigial organ, much like my battered heart that can't cease to bleed. That night when the dimmest lights came down raining upon us like huge stones that were pelted upon me in the form of those curses that still bruise my bare back, often a subject of your flawed poetry. When you counted each unruly strand of hair on my face and each wrinkled line on my parched lips until they aligned themselves in perfect harmony with your love and passion. That night. . . That night  when you swore by each drop of my sweat and each line of fate on my palm, tracing them all to yourself. When you emptied the contents of your heart into the last glass I broke on my wrist, wishing, or rather hoping to see a river flow out from it, more crimson than the setting sun which bore witness to our vows that were never made.
That night. . . That night love, I swear I wasn't drunk when I told you that I was a mutilated dead body and that you had been loving a dead woman all this while. I have had my medicines. But you see, I wasn't wrong when I told you that you wouldn't be able to bear the pain gushing into your heart, rising slowly, catching you in its throes when you realise that I am a paper crumbling under the weight of guilt, your love and them curses. No, I wasn't crazy when I said that I was no Atlas who could carry the world and still sit up, I am the woman who danced on the moon, counted the stars, swum in the galaxy and was sucked into the black hole, the ever widening gulf slowly suffocating me like the rotting smell of smoke lingering in my asthmatic lung. I wasn't being poetic when I told you to count all the words in the dictionary for that was the number of more breaths I would take before I filled my lungs with my own blood, and you sit there to wallow in guilt for having done nothing, no wrong to me. That night I wasn't lying, I wasn't exaggerating, I wasn't craving for your sympathy when I told you that the black of my past could cloud your future too for the darkness is too much to even grope in and there are no shortcuts.
That night, I regretted having told you about myself, about how I wasn't the lady with a sweet soul but someone dragging the body without a soul. That night, I drank a concoction of a thousand stale memories and died not drowning in my own blood but that of yours and I felt no guilt as I stood over you, admiring the cuts on you that ran deeper than my poetry which flowed out of you just as it had been fed into your veins, slowly, methodically. I confess love, I confess to my crime.

Contemporary Indian Society

Sanity, frozen into the abyss of nothingness
Trembles with the uncertainty
Of the weight of grief
Humanity, crystallised behind
The ribs of a crone
Rattles in the hollowness
Of an infinite space
Peace, tethered to
A dead man's soul
Struggles with the helplessness
Of unavoidable doom
Nationalism confined to
The tunes of "Bharat mata. ."
Shouts out loud from the
Shreds of a ripped flag

Here, grief rules
Hollowness defines
Helplessness spreads
And nationalism collects shreds
To unfurl a flag. . .

My Story

I hated them all. . . One, two, three, four. . . Forty? All forty of them, my classmates. They didn't know me. They didn't know my struggles. I knew they loved me and that was the very reason I hated them. I was once the sixteen year old girl sinking into depression. Not the kind of depression you go through just before the exams when the realization that the syllabus is huge and days too few hits you. This was raw depression, the kind that bullies you into believing that you're not worth living. It wedged its way into my life and shamelessly hung around me, as infinite as universe. It clung to me, stubborn, and made its presence felt every time I begged for happiness. It gnawed at my self esteem. 

The story began during my high school days when I was diagnosed with a much stigmatized chronic illness. I had to gulp down pills. Pills of all colors, in huge quantities. Depressing. Yet, I forced them down my throat because I wanted to live. But life for me came at a loss. I suffered from its side effects; losing my hair, feeling nauseated all through the day, turning pale, having problems swallowing food and yet I endured them all. The school was kind enough not to reprimand me for my perpetual absence. I would put on a mask of being 'okay' and go to school once in a while. My friends, teachers, even my own parents had no idea of what I was struggling with. After a day of pretense, I would get back home, hoping to find that 'something' which was missing from my life. All my teachers would help me, all but one teacher- bullying me in so many ways that I started slipping into depression. I knew I would fail in my last school exam. The so called 'career- deciding year' had been rendered dark for me. Parents and relatives suggested dropping the year. But I decided against it. 

I started suffering from anxiety too. Anxiety of not being accepted back in my peer group. . . The anxiety of being alienated. This anxiety increased the intensity of my depression because I myself was conforming to my anxious thoughts- sitting all alone on the corner most desk, staying quiet, not interacting much with my classmates and so forth. When a chirpy girl suddenly falls silent, there's something wrong with her. But, people didn't seem to notice. And I don't blame them. When you hide from people, how would they know a thing? Depression started getting severe. I hated all things I liked. I had insomniac nights, mornings would be greeted with wet pillows and my days would be spent lying on the bed, heavy with nausea. On one of those sleepless nights, I decided life wasn't worth living. Things weren't going to be okay. Nothing would be okay and yes. . . I decided to end things with a close of my eyes, just as easy as that. I wanted to fall into the abyss of nothingness. . . Wanted to feel the distance between my terrace and gravity. . . Not much I knew. But, I was sure it'd be better than my life. Just before I could proceed further, I could see life behind me. It was pulling me back. And it looked so beautiful! The fall was definitely tempting but life looked rewarding. And I chose the reward, shunned the temptation. I already felt better! I felt more human! 

Back in school, I was again the lonely one. And a miracle happened! One of my teachers, noticing me in class came to me and silently whispered in my ear "you are not the girl I know. Meet me today." And that changed me. After crying my heart out in front of her, I felt absolutely calm and the storm that had been raging inside me for what seemed like ages suddenly died. Those waves that kept shouting “worthless” stopped crashing on a heart that had almost given up. And I was back to being me! I cut my hair short, tried sitting on the last bench, enjoyed the canteen food and chatted endlessly with my best friend. . . Life had so much to offer. Just that I had gone blind to it. Soon afterwards board results were declared and well. . . My parents were proud of me! 

That phase of my life taught me a valuable lesson- life cannot be valued if you succumb to the challenges it presents. Every challenge is a test of your courage to endure life in its meanest, cruelest form. And the winner is the one who looks it into the face and cries out "Test me more, I won't fail."

Promises

On the 69th Indian independence day, here's a humble dedication to the men who leave everything behind to fight for our land. . .

Ask for something, won’t you Son?

I promise, I’ll try to get it for you, though I know

It’ll end up as a yet another unfulfilled promise

Promises that I always make and break

I now have stacks of promises to fulfill

Promises made in times of Joy

Promises made in utter confusion

Promises made while leaving you alone

The promise to get you a new toy

Promise of getting you books

Promise of being there with you

The promise of returning soon

As I write a yet another list of false promises

With a vacant smile, strangely, expecting

Your smiling face to appear on the page

To tell me that I broke a promise yet again

I know full well that this will end up

As a yet another letter in your neatly taped stack

From a father who carries with him just a bunch
Of unfulfilled promises made to his son

Ode to a Friend

This friendship day, my pen writes of my sister who also happens to be one of my best friends and of Priya (my besty) and of course of all of my lovely friends. .  . Here's wishing everyone a very Happy Friendship Day!

O my pen that writes of thee!

Though not mighty enough.

At this hour of the night

Under the soft glow of a full moon.

Writing a line, I pause

Take a full breath and wait

For my pen to work again.

O your image brighter than the moon!

I curse my inability to write more

O I concede! I can’t write more

For your image is far stronger 

Than my blue ink on a blank white page.  .  .

Haiku

Special thanks to +Kala Ramesh ma'am for teaching me the art of Haiku writing

long journey
pausing for water
I drink the moon

(First appeared in Cattails (youth corner), Jan'15 issue)

*                *               *

cotton candy vendor-
a penny less
in our piggy banks

*                *               *

sitting on a swing
watching the sky-
I miss my young mother

*               *               *

yellow light midst
the green leaves-
laburnums bloom

(First appeared in Cattails (youth corner), May '14 issue)

*               *              *

darkness unfolds
like a song. . .
granny's wordless tunes

(First appeared in Cattails (youth corner), Jan'15 issue)

*              *               *

The Escape

There was a purpose, of course. I don’t know of anyone

who has been on a pilgrimage to have ‘some fun’. Don’t you see the

lines of a resolve still etched on her sallow skin? The promise

she made to me, that of returning soon to rechristen herself

Emma the day after and begin a new life. Straightening

the mangled curls of her hair, as she ironed the

wrinkles on her night suit. Her tongue rolled

in a hurried succession, stumbling over the words

‘Communion’ and ‘Crucifixion’ as she stumbled

over the guitar strings as a kid, but played

‘silent night’ to perfection yesterday while

 narrating the plans of a pilgrimage the very next

morning. She repeated the stumbled words

And they escaped her tongue like a soft song. Today,

I tried hard to save the holy water from trickling away

from between the bony fingers of my cupped hands, or

was it the hope of seeing my daughter return, that

escaped? Or the loose page of bible on her lap? Or

a blank sheet with the word Emma on it? Or the shrill cry that

pierced the house before the receiver went mute in static?

(First appeared in the Teenage Wasteland Review, Spring 2015 issue)

x

Ode to the ones who have not been blessed

Bless the boy who has been sleeping

Under that Neem tree since the last two years

Wailing at night for the caress

Of a mother he never saw

And at dawn waiting for a sight

Of the father who left him here

Alone, Afraid . . .

Bless the child who works

For his little sister in the sun

Selling best- sellers at red lights

Offering discounts

On rags- to- riches stories

To luxury car owners

Unknowingly, Unaware . . .

Bless the girl who was sneered at

For “inviting the eyes of wolves

And letting herself be harassed”

Who now lives alone

And walks down the alley proudly

To tell them that she survived

Boldly, Bravely . . .

Watching Death

Dreading those unspoken words

We comforted each other

With a thought too far fetched

Those words, those unspoken words

Glared through our eyes

Yet, we dared not say it

“She’s breathing slow”

And we held our breaths

Trying to stay alone

Yet be nearer to her

Trying to be in peace

Yet break that silence

That spoke of death

And smelled of death

We watched her slipping away

In front of us

And we could do nothing

Apart from watching her dying impulse

Clutching her cold hands

Finally those unspoken words

Were said blatantly

“She’s no more”

And the silence ended

In a strange gush of warm breaths held back.

My Veils

I’m not just what you see

There’s another one lurching behind

And yet another behind that “me”

With a separate heart and a separate mind

There’s another one lurching behind

My veil which is a blatant lie

With a separate heart and a separate mind

All my personas, cleverly entwined

My veil which is a blatant lie

I drape around and I hide

All my personas, cleverly entwined

I conceal my other side

I drape around and I hide

The layers of my veiled self

I conceal my other side

So deep, none can delve

The layers of my veiled self

Will forever remain a mystery

So deep, none can delve

For I ain’t just what you see

There’s another one behind that “me”

The first time I sang a love song

The first time I sang a love song

Was not in that typical setting of a full moon night

With flowy Victorian gowns and black bows

Dominating a scene by the lake

Just a normal day out in the woods

When the dried leaves crunched with my steps

And I knew no one was there

To hear me croon a futile song

Learnt from an orphaned child

Who knew nothing more than the song

To sing to his little siblings when

He had to make them sleep without a meal

And as I sat pitching high and low

I could feel my heart crave

For something more than just the abstraction

Of a futile song escaping my mouth

Me, my Mum, Spinach and the beggar

“No mama, please, not spinach! This will be the fifth time in a month that we’ll be eating spinach.” This was me; yesterday evening at the Grocer’s in my neighborhood market. My mother did not say anything. Nor did she buy any other vegetable. We walked ahead talking as usual about traffic in particular. A few meters ahead, when we stopped at the fruit corner, a rickshaw came to an abrupt hall in front of me. The occupant, a lady kept sitting and while I kept wondering why did it stop so abruptly, I saw the lady looking at a beggar limping down the road. When he reached the rickshaw, she asked him “Do you want some food?” The beggar nodded. The lady without as much getting down the seat threw a bag of ‘mixed leftovers’ of a feast at him. He sat on the pavement and began eating hungrily as if he hadn’t seen food for days. I had never seen a person eat as hungrily and naturally, it touched me. When mama was finished with the shopping, she asked me “Why were you continuously looking at that beggar?” “He was very hungry” I said in a low tone and mama didn’t say anything more. On our way back home, I stopped at the Grocer’s “Won’t you buy spinach Mom?” My mum smiled.

Today the same spinach cooked by my mum tasted so different! I’ve never loved spinach as much! It felt as if I was enjoying a rare delicacy!

“I cried because I had no shoes. Till I saw a man with no feet” I’d always known this as a quote but, it is no longer just a quote for me.

Pantoum of the Night

As the night creeps in, breath by breath

The sky sighs and meets the sea

Clusters of an orangish glow

Cascading into the watery luster

The sky sighs and meets the sea

Singing a thousand wordless tunes

Cascading into the watery luster

The silver of the moonlight

Singing a thousand wordless tunes

Unfolding the darkness like a song

The silver of the moonlight

Awakens a thousand dreams

Unfolding the darkness like a song

With words lost into the waves

Awakening a thousand dreams

The night creeps in, breath by breath.

I'm Back!!

Hi readers!! I'm finally back after days of poring over voluminous books of Physics, Chemistry and Biology(thanks to my exams!) and yes, I finally know how to derive the formula of  magnetic field inside a toroid, I know what do we get when we put copper in silica lined converter and I know how is Human Insulin produced commercially, and a lot of other things!!
Well. . . All that aside, I'm finally free!! And as of now, here's something that came from my heart on one of my those "feel- good" days. Enjoy!!

A Schizophrenic’s Love Poem

I whip up two coffees

One with an extra spoon of sugar for you

I set it on the table and peer out

Through the cold glass of the window

Pulling the muffler tighter

Almost choking, I loosen it again

I see a figure striding down the driveway

I smile; it has got to be you

Though I see you clearly, I deny your existence

For they say, I see things that cannot be

I get back to my room’s dark reality

I see two coffees getting cold

I sit alone with the two cups

Waiting, waiting for you

I run my fingers along

The patterned silk of the tablecloth

You didn’t like the silk one

I change it to the white laced cover

Though I hear the creaks clearly

I deny your existence

For they say, I hear things that cannot be

I focus on the chair’s broken arm

You don’t like sitting on that one

I switch my chair for yours

I still wait with the two cups

I can’t take in its aroma now

I hear you climbing up the stairs

It won’t be long before you enter

To have a coffee gone cold waiting for you

Though I hear the squeaks of your Nike clearly

I deny your existence

For they say, I hear things that cannot be

I look at myself in the mirror

I still wear the apron with the burn mark

I remove it, lest you should feel it’s dirty

I see you enter my room

You give me that sunny smile

And as you bend down for a peck

I shut my eyes tightly

I spill the coffee

I break the mugs

And I deny your existence

For now I know, I see things that cannot be

Sounds of Silence

This poem has been written for my best friend's little autistic brother Pushkar.

Sitting in a place where silence echoes

And the painting on the wall looms large

Where even the air seems to be making noise

With the little boy in my lap

I try to understand him

Yet, for some reason, I can not

I watch him sit calmly, soundlessly

Mourning the stillness

That speaks of some unknown displeasure

I stare at the mute Casio in his hand

Half expecting it to spring to life

I curse myself for not being able

To give words to his tunes of silence

I look at him again

Into those eyes gazing at some distant land

Not looking into mine

Yet, expecting me to understand

I listen to the muteness that surrounds us

And that stillness tells me that I know him

And I nod; he laughs

And his laughter echoes with the sounds of silence.

I’m still that little girl

Today as I woke up in the morning, my eyes fell on a portrait of Pt. Jawaharlal Nehru in the newspaper that my mother had just placed on my bed. I sat up and read the lines written below it. “Commemorating the 125^th birth anniversary of Pt. Jawaharlal Nehru” I called out to my mum “You didn't wish us mama, today is children’s day.” “Is it 14^th?” she asked returning with a cup. “Oh, then Happy children’s day.” My mother’s casual wish made me smile. I realized that I’m no longer that little girl wearing frilled frocks who would have been given a warm hug and lots of chocolates on this day. I am a seventeen year old now who ought to be content with a casual “Happy Children’s day.”And I was reminded of some of the teachers in school who now need to be told “Sir/Ma’am, It is children’s day today!”

Today as I sit reflecting on those years spent munching wafers and enjoying tangy toffees, I wonder where’s that little girl who would run with Dad around the house if the weather wasn't good enough to play outside? Where’s that girl who would throw a tantrum if asked to wear that red frock. Where’s the girl who would catch as many toffees (chocolaty melody, to be specific) as she could when Dad would throw some into the air asking both of us (me an’ my sis) to catch them (even helping himself to some)? Where’s that girl who would count the number of stars in her notebook? Where’s the girl who would reach school early in order to sit on the flower shaped chair? Where’s that girl who would run around telling everyone that it is children’s day and children really deserve something special on the day?

The little girl inside me today, urges me to be that little girl yet again. I hear her say softly to me “You are still a little girl. Just that you have given in to the norms of the society to behave like a sensible teen. Don’t you want to have those tangy toffees again? Don’t you want to wear those frocks yet again? Don’t you want a treat on children’s day?” And I realize that my taste buds still tingle for that tangy taste (Alas! Those toffees aren't available anymore), I still want to catch toffees thrown in air (I can catch more now; I've got bigger hands, wink. . .) I still want to play stupid games in the rain. I still want to celebrate children’s day with the same gusto. I still want to be that little girl again. And today, I pledge, for this one day, I will be that little girl yet again because I still am the little girl I once was...

A Virtual Image

You are just like my image

Standing in the same stone corridor

With the same depth in those eyes.

Whispering the secrets

I revealed to you long back

And repeat them even now

Loudly sometimes, in my sleep

When I dream of you.

You wear the same dress as I do

Holding a same sized, melting candle in your left.

When I move forward

You come closer too.

Yet, when I try to reach you

My fingers feel cold

Even in the candle light warmth.

I cannot touch you

For there’s a mirror in between.

You are but a deception, a virtual image.