Warped n Twisted

harsh words and violent blows
hidden secrets no one knows
eyes are open, hands are fisted
deep inside I'm warped and twisted

so many tricks and so many lies
too many when's and too many why's
nobody's special, nobody's gifted
I'm just me warped and twisted

sleeping awake and choking on a dream
listening louldly to a silent scream
call my mind, the numbers unlisted
lost in someone so warped and twisted

on my knees alive but dead
look at my invisible blood I've bled
I'm not gone, my mind just drifed
dont expect much, I'm warped and twisted

burnt out, wasted, emty and hollow
today's just yesterday's tomorrow
the sun died out, the ashes shifted
I'm still here warped and twisted

I Want Mail Too!!

Yes, bring it on. Lemme start by acknowledging the puns and smart-a** comments of all my gifted, über intellectual and super witty friends. The most popular, winning pun ‘male’ was not lost on me and may I admit that it is not entirely out of context here (though I assure you it’s not the pivotal fulcrum of this particular piece of writing.) There, having gotten that out of the way, let’s get on with what I want; I want mail.

 As I’m so often wont to digress or detour or ramble or interrupt or plain simple get carried away in most of my conversations (ALL my friends, who know the garrulous me, are vigorously nodding their heads), allow me to take care of that as well, right here in the beginning itself. Isn’t watching an old movie very much like re-acquainting oneself with an old friend? And what better, may I ask, than an everlasting, quintessential love story. Ahh!! The nod of the wise ones, now they get it! Yes, I saw ‘You’ve Got Mail’ and fell in love all over again, for the umpteenth time.

I fell in love with the love story, aren’t we poor little schmucks for mush like that?

Girl hates Boy<<Girl meets Boy<<Girl doesn’t know he is THE Boy<<Girl finds anchor<<Girl starts liking Boy, little, little<<Girl comes into her own<<Girl realizes he is THE Boy<<Girl falls in love with Boy, little, little<<Girl has Anchor, Friend, Lover and what a miracle they all are ‘THE Boy’!!

That’s us, us women. Love us or leave us. Everyone loves a good love story; heaven forbid the hybrid, new age term they use now-a-days, rom-com. Ugghh!! Blasphemy!! It’s two people falling in love and it’s a love story. Period.

I fell in love with the characters, dearly adorable, very easy to relate to – us, right? People like you and me? Articulate and very distinct character development. Alrite, movie review be damned, I related to the character of Kathleen Kelly – strong, independent woman of today, knows her mind, speaks it too, the right touches of grace, manners and politeness, and a big ocean of sentimentality underneath all those layers. Just need the right man to come along and she’s all yours, forever.

I fell in love with her bookstore. A friend and I long ago decided we’d do just that someday, given half the chance and resources in life, it’s a dream I hope to materialize, when all is well with my world. Open a little nook of a book place that serves hot cocoa with Danish pastries, some blueberry muffins baking hot in the oven, a batch of cinnamon buns with hot chocolate sauce poured over them and lots of chatter and laughter washing over my place. Yes, the baker in me will be alive and kicking by then. Oh and I do make a mean glass of cold coffee too.

I fell in love with the fact that each time I see a movie all over again, I come up with a new perspective of find something I completely missed earlier. Imagine my sheer and utter surprise when I found myself humming along the tune of

                           I'll take the legs from some old table

                          I'll take the arms from some old chair

                          I'll take the neck from some old bottle

                          And from a horse I'll take the hair

                          I'll take the hands and face from some old clock

                          And baby when I'm through

                          I'll get more loving from the dum-dum-dummy

                         Than I ever got from you

A song I learned to sing along the piano to Ma’am Mehta’s tunes way back in class 7. Now how often does that happen? A real sprint down memory lane it is, me at the speed of a ‘lightning request’ song playing itself out on the school fête.

And finally, I fell in love with the idea of falling in love. Heard of it lately? It’s the one thing that keeps us going, bound to come back for it again and again, makes the world go round, puts the sunshine in our life, plasters a stupid yet dazzling smile on our faces, can’t get the teeth to stay in, a twirl when we walk, a gallop when we run, it’s what makes the birds sing. Want the Big Picture? It makes it all worthwhile at the end of the day, ensures you sleep with a half smile and wake up smelling the coffee.

` I tell ya, ‘There is a lid for every pot. Go/find.’

A place I’ve known before; a place I know not anymore. Roads, streets, nooks n crannies, lanes, landmarks, buildings – isn’t all this that constitutes a city. The physical, demographic aspect of it at least. Places I frequented, identified with some, simply loved hanging out at a few, some I liked less, and still some that I breathed in, just like the air in my lungs. A plethora of memories, nonetheless.

I was in Chandigarh once again and with a whole day to kill I found myself gravitated towards the one place I always went to for peace, working off steam, analyzing things or just plain 'tafree,' like we used to call it, The Lake. I sat there for the longest time, still, unmoving, unthinking, blocking stuff out of my mind, in denial, just taking in the physicality of the place to hit me but not allowing it to play its magic on me.…. yet.

But just like you cannot block light from filtering through the cracks and peeps similarly you cannot prevent new life from infusing through into hope and dreams anew. Along with the old memories realization came trickling through there is plenty of space for new ones too. Reminding me that there are tomorrows and ever-afters and spring too.

And then it started raining…..

And along with it the rain brought the smell of wet earth, washed away the haze of dust that was settling over things, painted a clean pristine canvas afresh and anew, the wind blew the hair into my eyes and the little droplets of water fell like noughts and crosses all over my face. 

And to think that I came here to mull over in soppy solitude! But then this city has always embraced me, welcomed me, showed me the way, transitioned me to bigger and better things, nurtured, healed and made me whole again, soothed my tears, pacified my tempests, a haven from life unbearable. As the leaves flew berserk around me in the wind and the small crescent waves lapped against the stoned embankment, I marveled at how these waves were tireless, endeavoring always, not sure how far they’ll go, when or where they’ll break but still lapping on. So be me, just moving on, up ahead, always forward, moving on…..

Is it really an excerpt....

Summer after summer has ended,
balm after violence:
it does me no good
to be good to me now;
violence has changed me.

Daybreak. The low hills shine
ochre and fire, even the fields shine.
I know what I see: sun that could be
the August sun, returning
everything that was taken away—

You hear this voice? This is my mind's voice;
you can't touch my body now.
It has changed once, it has hardened,
don't ask it to respond again.

A day like a day in summer.
Exceptionally still. The long shadows of the maples
nearly mauve on the gravel paths.
And in the evening, warmth. Night like a night in summer.

It does me no good; violence has changed me.
My body has grown cold like the stripped fields;
now there is only my mind, cautious and wary,
with the sense it is being tested.

Once more, the sun rises as it rose in summer;
bounty, balm after violence.
Balm after the leaves have changed, after the fields
have been harvested and turned.

Tell me this is the future,
I won't believe you.
Tell me I'm living,
I won't believe you.

 Louise Glück

 Is it really an excerpt, even it seems to define your entire being at this given moment in time when the sand seems to lie still in the hourglass? Is it possible that the pearls from another mind's ocean encapsulate your life, immortalising it, in a verse? Is that all that it is, or is it me?

Of undying love and death of a love;
everlasting friendships and livin-in-the-moment euphoria;
chains that bind you and fetters that define you;
surges of hope and plunges of despair;
endless eternal waits and over-too-soons;
sweet nothings and the verbose language of love...

The Net

The trapeze artists were doing what they do best, keeping the crowd spellbound with their death defying leaps n acrobatics. Spectators gaped open mouthed as they watched, stunned by the gravity defying acts.

But they were oblivious to the net that was stretched much below their line of vision. It was stretched tautly to arrest any misjudgment. It was visible only from above as the gymnasts flung themselves from dizzying heights, to be caught by their colleague in the nick of time.

The net was totally self effacing, n could hardly be called a participant in that wondrous spectacle of human stunts. But no matter how much it underplayed itself, the net was, without doubt, very crucial for the entire act to unfold smoothly.

The presence of the net merely eased the nerves rather than improve the skills. The visual cue of the net eased the grip of every performer, as letting go of the bar or a hand was as important as holding on tight in this acrobatic orchestra.

The most genuine of relations are the ones that never need constant reaffirmation. They're the ones that transcend dependence, n never beg reciprocity. They remain uncharacteristically in the background, n serve to stimulate n encourage silently..... till that day of reckoning when the trapeze artists would perform without that net. That would be the defining moment and to disappear would be the net's salvation.

I shivered. Always do. That nerve tingling reaction you have just before you start something, small/big, new/old, momentous/ordinary, meaningful/frivolous, the one before any start.

Catharsis. Rejuvenation. Writing. Synonymous...... for now.

More to follow.

Shivered again. That nerve tingling assuring reaction you have just before u embark on a journey.