After You

A reason to sustain
Another to smile.

The world spins,
I stand watching by
Caught in the eye
Of a hurricane,
I am here. Feeling
The sparks you gave,
Trailing the soft
Memories;
After you.

Floating in space
I wait
For a gush of life.
Push me to my burning Sun
Keep me happy
Or char me to death
I care not now.

Life had been kind to me till that day, maybe even a blessing. All

planned. All under control. Till that moment. Till her.

I had been born with a passion. And that was to sketch life, upon

canvas. I loved the way life ebbs onto a blank sheet with some

strokes, some colours. I loved the feel of creation.

But in an upper middle class family in the suburb of Ahmedabad, one

couldn’t just afford to go behind one’s passions. My life had been

set. Not by me, but by everyone but me. Until I decided to break free.

I convinced my parents that a boy could survive, and support a family

being an artist. Sure, it would be difficult, but I felt an

exhilaration, to come face to face with my passion.

So, after getting enrolled in a prominent arts school in Mumbai, i

started living the city, loving the city... The salty air and the

grey-ochre pallor gave wings to my imagination and creativity. Three

years had passed before I reached the point when we started sketching

human anatomy. The beauty in nudity was to be portrayed. And that was

our assignment.

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I took a deep breath, and opened my eyes. I gave a silent call for the

muses and started. Took the palette and the scalpel and opened my

senses. The dim sun was streaming in through the windows of my studio.

It had just rained, and the air tasted of rain. Her golden skin gave a

silver sheen when the light rays struck her.

A blank and emotionless picture of indifference – her body. Save her

eyes. Those deep, lowered eyes couldn’t hide her pain. They screamed

for mercy, gave a thousand colours to emotions any artist could dream

of. Poverty was her weakness, making her go nude in front of a random

stranger. Her poverty was my instrument, to create a masterpiece.

I took her pain, and painted. Black and white and grey. I worked on

the canvas. Shaped out her curves, chiselling her contours, I drew

her. Black and white and grey.

She sat there. Her knees drawn up, her arms clasped around them. A

grey shroud covering her hair, slumped on the floor beside her supple

rumps. Her soft round face, and her soft earlobes, dimpled chin. Her

delicate lips where a kiss lingered…

I painted them all. I painted the promise of a kiss. I drew the

softness of her face.

Two locks of her curly black hair fell on her forehead, damp with

sweat. I wondered if it’s the humidity. I hoped it is not just that.

Those two curls from medusa’s locks, both wove a tale, playing,

teasing… made love to each other. A foreplay on their own.

I sketched her locks. Black and white and grey.

Her arms, graceful. Supple. Human. Tender flesh clothed in honeyed

skin. Each of her curves a delicacy. Her voluptuous breasts taut, yet

soft in sight. Smooth. Round. Full. Each a teasing half-moon. A scoop

of creamy butter. Mouthful. The soft pale skin a delicacy. Folded in

and out, in and out, over the creamy whites of her stomach. The tiny

bulge of her waist-line, waited to be tugged, pinched and bitten. Till

bluish bruises adorn it.

Her spine curved to a crescent, creasing her bottoms. Her smooth

thighs caught the light seeping in, shimmered like purest satin. With

all her imperfections, it was a perfect amalgam of all things

beautiful.

My eyes wandered to the space between her thighs. Forbidden.

Unwelcome. The one place where all her essence, all her flesh melted

to one point. I touched her with my eyes. Touched her all over,

caressing her, making her mine. My eyes feasting on her… A frenzy of

mad pulsations set forth within me. My throat parched, a thousand

blood vessels worked in union against my brain, and set me on fire.

Her eyes suddenly darted to my lustful ones.

I had stopped painting.

And in that yellow-grey studio, even the constant thump of Mumbai

seemed to go silent. The room reverberated with the madding beats of

my heart, and the blood it sent pumping to my veins.

I was one with a passion I never knew of. A world where I couldn’t

just create, a world that I had to know and feel as it unfurls before

me.

I walked, drifting towards her eyes – two black stars set in a white

sky. They were scared, yet certain of an inevitability that her body

recognised. Her lax posture was suddenly an alert one, each tiny pore

of her skin aroused. Her head rose to meet my gaze, her arms pulling

her legs closer shielding her from me, her eyes pleaded.

Two unsteady arms reached out, I wanted to tell her everything was

alright, wanted to comfort her, saying I couldn’t harm her. But

neither did words come out of my mouth, nor did raw instincts let me

lie. The arms that were meant to protect instead had found her soft

damp curls, smoothened it out on her face, and then closed her eyes.

And I kissed those black stars. I was on my knees, my fingertips

getting to know all that my eyes had felt. She shuddered and twisted

beneath my touch and my ragged breath on her neck and arms left a

trail of goose-bumps on her skin. I pulled down the shroud on her

head, and let it fall to the ground, next to her back. Her long hair

unravelled out to meet her lower spine, and caught on the beads of

perspiration.

Her neck and her navel were the sources of a divine perfume that was

cherished in the underbelly of the city. A mix of camphor, lavender,

salt, dirt. An elixir to my senses. I could not return from there now.

And I kissed her, savouring her salted sweaty sweetness, her shy kiss,

and her warmth, while my hands familiarised her contours. Our bodies

set forth a rhythm on the naked ground… little specks of dirt forming

constellations on her skin when they touched the ground each time.

Starry-eyed, we scaled together, comatose.

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Did I love her? I never knew.

While I lay on my back partly in shock, part terror, part awkwardness,

she rose and draped herself. Her otherwise silent vocal cords strained

and put forth a demand. “Money”, her coral lips mouthed. I got up,

paid her wages for the day as pre-arranged. Her black-star eyes groped

my soul, the ruby red mouth formed another shape, and my ears picked

up a monosyllable. “More”. With a numbness, I fumbled through my

pockets for a few more notes.

She left. And I was left. Left alone with my canvass that had some

random strokes. Of black and white and grey.

I held the brush, dipped in a new colour and started painting her from

my memory. My eyes hands mouth body, all joined to recreate her.

Through the dusky sunlight, I finished my work. I had my nude sketch.

Black white grey, and red.

Maybe I loved her; maybe not. Maybe she remembers me; mostly not. But

all I know is that even after 7 years, and a better life, the salty

winds of Mumbai after rains always reminded me of her. Her black eyes,

her salty smell, the taste of dust on her neck, and her pale golden

skin that gave a moonlight glow. Maybe…

Kashmir

When I came back, fresh from the trip, I had to speak a lot about the place. I said it was beautiful, that the autumn gave the place a surreal beauty. Or something about the cold climate and the warmth of the people. Yet other times, I could talk endlessly about the pain and the tragedy each person had to go through, living through the trauma.

But now, as I sit down to jot down for myself my memories about the trip, none of those matter. What I wish to say is a feeling that is beyond words, and this I say, not for the drama, but for real. I do not know how to put in words the state of mind I was in when I was there. This is why they say communication is the greatest curse to the transfer of ideas.

Peace. Tranquility. Silence.

Na. These words constrict the meaning, not express it. Kashmir felt like a time warp. Some glitch in the fabric of time. Took me back to my innocence. A childhood in a small town, which I thought was the world - a town full of nature, nice people, Maruti 800s and unsaid rules that weren't rules.

No one felt the need to rebel then. Everything was fine. The system was good. It could keep us happy. We were moral, without feeling it binding. And the lack of opportunities outside the home, made us all social. We made our worlds within the home. Cooking and cleaning weren't chores. They were a part of life. An early morning gave us endless possibilities to spend the day. We talked to our neighbors ' children. We played with them, and we made them good memories they cherish till their memory serves them.

Srinagar's little town with invisible high walls could bring me closer to myself. Once outside the din of the Cities, I could listen to my heart. It was like I closed my eyes under the sheet and made the world far far away. Disappeared.

The discovery I made wasn't huge. It wasn't even philosophical. I didn't realise God, or feel a mystic vibration. No, what changed in me wasn't all that substantial.

I just remembered how innocence felt.

I just remembered how my childhood felt.

There was no sense of right or wrong. There was no fear of death or life. I just knew that somewhere within, there is a reason for me to smile and be happy. Life was about happiness. Not pleasure. Sheer happiness. If there is one thing that can make you smile free, uncomplicated and without any pulls, it is that innocent happiness.

That is what Kashmir gave me. It gave me instances from my childhood.

Forever indebted.

Disillusion

What do you feel when you've reached some place you always wanted. Thought out your every  move, planned every detail, lived a dream, and finally you have it in your hand?

The answer to the question is the title. Disillusionment.

And then… you see it.

Sans glory. Deprived of its grandeur. Stripped of its charm. You see it.

The anticipation and anxiety finally dead. You see the ugly naked baby in your arms.

Without the blue ribbon, without the grand nothings, you see it.

The real deal. The ultimate truth. Raw life.

Call it what you must, but I say it's ugly. Nothing like the promises of those fantasies.

A whole new thing to come to terms with.

What was life before, then becomes one among life's many.

Forever After

How does it feel to be heart-broken?

Well, your heart pretty much feels just that. Broken.

I can see God's knowing smile. I can feel my guardian angel… Somewhere, nearby… watching, listening…  They tell me - it's alright, we're with you. They tell me - listen to the voice within. And the voice outside…

They tell me secrets, of the world and the universe… they sing to me. A thousand lullabies. They form the feathers in pillow, they soak the warm wet drops. Salty sweat that hold my fears from a nightmare. They form the soft cotton of the blanket, they keep my shriveled dreams warm. They tell me it's normal. It's okay.

It feels human. It feels alive. It also feels like a slow death. Knowing the end is near… I tend to treasure each memory, every moment… I want to hold them  in tiny vials, and keep in a secret room. Where I can go check up on them, see that they are safe from the ruins my life may bring. I pray these uncomplicated happy memories remain that. Because they are my forever after… 

Prophecy of Satiation

Shadows soft, a dark cloak be -

Soothing a virgin's pulsations.

Rooted in fantasy, a crystal ball,

A prophecy, she awaits.

For when the world is at its fall,

And hopes soar high above,

She longs to live and die alike,

A quick surrender.

To shatter glass walls.

Her song then slips out to the world

In soft, unsteady gyrations.

She then is one with her purpose.

She then is one with her life.

I, a Phoenix

For eyes that fail when a heart wells,

For a tear, stillborn, lost in a battle,

For an unknown cause , a hidden reason,

For a few souls that thirst for a love,

Let me change… let me break… let me cry…

And build a soul from the ashes -

Plummet around, let me fly. I, a Phoenix.

Essence of Inaction

Arms flung apart, wide,

I take in the paralysis of my mind.

Blaring fast rhythms are what I use

To overpower the melancholic strain -

The pain of the cords of some

Broken lyre, the soft whine that

My vocals deliver - I mask them;

Hide them inside cracked walls,

And chambers within a long maze.

Amaze myself at the fallacy

Of the sunshine I show; curtains drop

Affront those clawing shadows.

Confronting my ghosts, I hear

The rip-tear-crack of my bones

Caught in a tug of faces-places.

I know naught of their push or pull

Or of the many unspoken warnings.

I dream of oblivion, a black death,

An absence of script, and

The presence of sanity. Do I

Wish or Pray

Or while away

Time, and plead defeat,

As life passes by,

Saying its quick good bye?

Colours of Autumn

He saw her. And he saw Autumn. He saw autumn - in her, with her, through her, around her, and one with her.

After a few lifetimes' wait, the strange girl in the narrow lane turned around and looked into his eyes Into him, through him.

Blue.

Her eyes. The sky. A crystal clear blue. Pale, calm. Set in a space ahead, a time ahead, full of promises. A glint of wisdom that came with the understanding of death, also the inevitability of winter. Blue were her eyes. And so was the sky.

Yellow.

A breeze fluttered the trees' leaves. The blue of her eyes flitted to a yellow leaf, ripe and ready. He saw the leaf. Yellow. He saw a butterfly. Yellow. He saw her dress, fluttering. Yellow.

Orange.

The wind didn’t stop. It toyed with her hair. He struggled to place the shade. Red? Or was it Copper?

She helped him. She walked, aside, to the trees. Picked a fallen leaf. Placed it on her hand. Made a wish and blew it away. Her hair, and the leaf - he was now sure - orange.

Red.

Red hot. The flowers on a distant tree. Some berry that came late for season. Her lips twitched to a sad smile. He saw them all. Red.

Brown.

A blink was all it took. In the moment his eyelids came together, she went away. She became one with the dirt, beneath her feet. Brown. The dirt stretching out to the distant path ahead. Brown. And he was left with memories, and her brown dust.

He walked ahead. He had seen her. He had seen autumn.

She was his autumn.

Colour Me Red

In a sly womb of closed hearts

Where many a breath dies away,

Lives a tomb of resurrection.

For memories, mine, blown away.

A lament to the dark skies

Shushed by the day-blooms,

Chokes in the tenderness

Of a throaty dead gloom.

A vulture's slow laughter,

Its various plumes spread,

Pulls over the dead roots,

And large oaks fall dead.

A teardrop too precious,

Falls deep into lost seas.

Salty sweet, a misty pearl

Lost forever, unseen.

In a story of lives- unlived,

Breathes a tale - unsaid.

A lone song bursts out; and

I pray, colour me red.

Paradise regained

Should we be scared of something we do not know? A future that may end in spite and ice or in rage and fire. Either way, it is the end of the known and the beginning of the unknown.

Maybe life is a prelim. To toughen us up for death. To temper us, ripen us, to wrap us for death. To make each of us special, to warm us. 

We are the gifts, the sacrifices that life gives to her lover, death.

The seed in us given to us by life and the fruit taken by death.

Life coaxes death, cajoles it, tempts it and seduces it, with us, her children.

Light

Writing, to me is a refocus.

When I am lost, confused in here, I write. And when I do, it soothes me, that I loom away. From here, to elsewhere. To a while, where none of my original worries  matter. For a while, I connect, to what I feel is the closest to a soul. My soul. And so I call these escapades an art.

Writing, to me is an art.

And therefore, I consider me an artist, reaching out to my inner depths, listening to the muse that sings within, watching her weave a tale,  feeling her pulse as she dances away ecstatic. She creates magic, and life. 

She creates me. She is me.