THE SECOND DAY

It was 18:57 when I last checked my mobile phone, (before I got inside, of course) I remember minimizing my music screen to facilitate that. ‘In the Sun’ by She & Him, and I stayed put for an unknown bit. Maybe 10 minutes, but I’m not sure and that’s the whole point. I’m not sure.

I’m not hung over, mind you. Kind of a pathetic way to begin a sincere narrative but I thought I had to stick to the trend to illustrate I’m not part of it. I hope that makes sense. I spent seventeen minutes between 18:30 and 18:47 at the exact place where I had boarded the vehicle yesterday, and my clock runs seven minutes fast, not that I intend it not to. And it’s not like I couldn’t wait longer, but I was struck by this better idea or at least something that looked better to me at that ‘lost’ point of time, so I stopped the next vehicle (a ‘share-auto’ if you must know). I asked for ‘Thirumangalam’ and he nodded. I hopped in.

Once right away, once when we turned at the arch and quite extensively from then. I remember ‘Ridin’ in my car’ pretty well, and I also remember me losing track of time and place at that point. I was doing it subconsciously, like a sort of normal emotional reaction. She had me hooked, yeah, I’d never deny that. I prayed that she wouldn’t get down at the next turn and she didn’t, thankfully. She only smiled even more at how I reacted to that fleeting rise she threw my way.

No, not here. Not here. I remember this illuminated white strip on an otherwise dark kind of road (it’s the same road, portions of which are darker than usual, a sign of uninhabited state). I didn’t have time on my side so I ought to be deciding fast, or so I thought. And I found no white rectangle.

How long would this go on anyway? How long… I mean, not that I didn’t want it to go on forever, but could I have trusted my near-hypnotized self? And I really thought she could hear my mind, I sort of highlighted that voice with whispers through my lips, forming phrases like, “Oh my…” and “this is so… odd, so… awkward!” and then I looked at her and she smiled and I smiled, and I swear I hadn’t smiled as broad before.

I was past it, pretty much and this self-assuredness gave me some weight, really. I was able to fully appreciate in a way that I could end up not seeing her again, but that didn’t have to stop me from trying, you know. Two things filled my mind, predominantly. One was that if I was past where she got down, then that would explain her absence in the autos that went past me, and the second was that if I was at a place before where she got down, then I simply had to be extra cautious, or I don’t know… Man, it’s a sick thing to be doing all the same.

Ten minutes? Of all the warmth that we had felt, and she could spare just ten minutes? What’s that, some super-miser, or just pure ‘femme fatale’? No, no way, this can’t be a test, this surely can’t be… and there’s this other girl sitting right in front, chic with a pair of lips glossing out from the oddest place for them to be, and… No, I was moving again and she was moving away. I couldn’t find voice enough to ask him to stop, to tell him that was where I should be getting down. She smiled at me, a distant smile from twenty metres away. The one next to me looked dumbstruck. And I was speechless, blank and misty.

Well before she got down, and all I had to do was wait. I thought I’d kip at a signal and peer into everything that went past, and that could uncomplicated things, an irony in itself. 19:28. I thought I had lost her already, you know. Recollections of how I wished to ask the girl in front of me if she liked what she was listening to and tell her what I thought of it, and... that didn’t make it out of my throat either.

“Are you looking at anything in particular, or are you just trying to not look at me?”. Of course I didn’t ask that! I didn’t ask her anything, I didn’t make the rhetoric I wanted to make, I didn’t progress on this front where I imagined me having a girlfriend like her, high-maintenance, lot of expectations, too much of promises that I couldn’t linger on for even a moment. Everyone else found a reason to get down before, and it was just me and her by the time we reached where I had to get down. She spoke in Tamil, much to my surprise, and she had successfully avoided looking at me for the whole of it. I tried to keep an eye out for her as I picked up a call on my phone. I answered it.

She was gone. I couldn’t explain this little tear that made its way out of my left eye. And I didn’t bother to look out for her either.

Umm nope, not answering. And I tried again, same result. 19:35. I thought of the things I said yesterday, things I wrote, things I wanted to write, encounters that never were and how chasing something that never was could only be a way into delusion; into believing what I want to believe as opposed to what needs belief. I thought of the only time when I had actually broken the ice, and how I had waited for dawn in my hostel-days so I could read what she had to say. A week, and they’d be back again, I thought. And that could be a level of happiness that could swallow this angst against myself, against this life that so denies itself in actuality, and cloud nine would be too low a place for me to be in then.

I thought of her, I thought of ‘seeking against living’, fidelity, trust, a stable mind and… my mother finally picked up, told me she’d be waiting where I usually get down, and I felt like something peppy to mark this change of direction. ‘Smooth’ by Carlos Santana featuring Rob Thomas.

I headed home.

ENOUGH SAID

It’s a question mark, you know. Every time I sit to write something that’s not relevant and yet is strong, or I don’t know… I’m not able to sit this time, and I don’t know what this is about. I mean, I do know and I do understand, or maybe I don’t understand but I know all the same. I wouldn’t call this a poem, aesthetic or not, it’s just… completely irrelevant.

Fired up to spark a smile,

what I found in hers,

she found in mine;

a window to the outside world,

silent treatment to what I heard

…ten minutes of blankness past,

I’m sorry I can’t spit a word;

never have I felt so choked,

teller of the stories told,

and what would happen to me in mine?

Where’s the niche, where’s the sign?

Or should I refrain to “How many times?”

in angst against the angst provoked?

‘Inconsequence’ be my teasing find,

the edge into a depressed rhyme;

and if I turned to words, to sell,

the virtual pair of hands we held,

for all at once she took them all,

my hands, my head, my mind, my heart,

and I doubt if I can make some sense,

stringing this with what she left;

so I guess I should stop for now,

and ask my wind to open out…

I saw this girl, I saw her smile, I didn’t have a reason to not see the same, but I don’t think that’s why I looked in the first place. And there was this huge surge of feeling secure, an at-home kind of thing, and I don’t know, I thought she was giving that, I really had no part to play. And then ten minutes later, I won’t ever see her again? I don’t know, man, it’s… there’s just been too much of compliance, too much of standing still, watching things go by.

Did I think she’d not get down, or did I think she’d ask me to get down with her, it’s just… Life’s no ‘Before Sunrise’, I guess. But she was still looking and still smiling and still connecting, and I guess I didn’t play Jesse well.

I think I'm counting my six months till tomorrow. Period.

A THOUSAND MILES

Not exactly a forced thought, for I found myself to be duty-bound. It’s something I’ve wanted to write for long, but postponed because it’s kind of inside my head anyway, but I wanted it out this time because you know, it’s been a while. I can’t be entirely honest about this, I’ve specifications.

A hundred feet on bumpy road,

walking through the doors I know;

a weary pair of shoes I tuned

to turn towards the world that’s you

I’ve been running all my life,

to one without my oldest find;

with scarcities and second thoughts,

in times without your rocket-launch

A thousand miles, my target set,

staring at the road ahead;

if only I could last the night,

I’d stumble through the whole divide

Dazed as the morning finds,

the outcome of a storm in gloom;

with yellow paint on winter white,

and blackness caught on shades of blue

It’s alright, I have half a heart

and half a hand in half this war;

but what with half the world alive,

biding time for half the strike?

And then you slice my night to two,

a complementary split of mood;

my sleet gets gagged by fire-power,

and smoke that fogs a perfect shot

A part of feet and taking wind,

needles of rain sent streaming in;

trembling on the picture-frame,

half-forsaken, half-afraid…

I walked, I ran, I sighed, I flew,

or at least I dreamt of what I’d do;

so rest a little, wait a while

and I’ll see you in a thousand miles

EPILOGUE

Freedom takes a walk out there,

returning without clothes to spare;

chasing fleas in running shoes,

apple-crazy, whole or bruised…

How much can this calf withstand,

inside the chest of half a man?

And a lesser sense that creeps inside

that a thousand miles isn’t worth my time

Taxi drives, her smile, her talk,

her nose, her hair, her crazy walk;

a thousand miles ahead, as said,

and the blanket finally found my head…

To ‘You’. And sorry about the hiatus, it implied nothing but the fact that there was a hiatus, like a hiatus for hiatus’ sake, nothing more to explain.

THE HEART OF LIFE

This had been coming on for a while, when I had thought of an uncle who had died sixteen years before and how I strangely hadn’t missed him at all and that’s only because I never knew him enough to miss him. And it’s like, every single time that a person I knew has died, I’ve never felt a pang of thought that lasted too long, I’m not specifying days here for I myself am not aware of when my thoughts had moved on. The mind had put this thought of mine to a self-evaluating module, and I figured that every single person who I knew had died had somehow left my life or had become sort of temporarily detached (for ‘left’ sounds too insensitive of me) from my day-to-day deal and had embarked on something without me that every time I had heard the news, I had to grieve over a memory and just a memory at that, and as vivid as I claim my memories to be, I don’t think they’re that powerful though. Or maybe I’m aware that they’re just memories and nothing more.

Constant chant of ‘Who am I?’

a cog that turns the wheel of time;

stalling trying to turn it back,

a sideward slide, then running fast

No time to spend on those who came,

weakened with the bright of day

and left before they caught my sight,

or those who made no mark inside

Of those who left some depth explored,

in photographs and things they wrote,

of family and closest kin,

of odours that once washed my wind

They left indeed with said goodbyes,

ensued deletions off my mind;

for finer weeks and Sunday stops,

with conscience finds in ration lost

In times but I do think of them,

and maybe wonder where they went;

and an inside view on outside passed,

a scorch of eyes and stroke of hair

And water finds no slight of salt,

in resolve to live ahead without;

my worry lines in ‘fine’, disguised,

and that, my friend, is the heart of life…

I don’t know if this is an apology note on my part or merely a self-directed justification to a skeptical being inside me, but yes, this is yet another addition to my ‘Little Rhymes’. And by the way, this is NOT my version of the Mayer song. It's just a poem that's named the same, and I wish for that clarity of thought in those who read it.

THE GOOD MOTHER

“You sure?”

“He has her lips”, he observed. “Don’t you-”

“You look at her lips?”

“Oh, don’t tell me-”

“I’m positive.”

And he pulled out a page from a magazine folded into eighths from inside his pocket, unfurled it for him to see and held it beside the face of the one in focus, who closed his eyes, unable to bear the effect anymore.

“See?”

“Wow.”

“This is insane…” he remarked.

He turned to leave, apparently having had enough of the whole thing, seeing it was no fire-drill for him to get out of it unscathed. There were emotions (as ironical as it could sound) and emotions can get hurt wherever they exist, needless to say. He was addressed before he fled the scene, forced to turn around fighting tears of frustration.

“Can you…?”

He was extended a pen along with the piece of paper, now back to being folded. What was intended needn’t be said for it was more than understood. They stood up to leave.

“So…” the politer one hesitated. “We’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

The boy looked down, biting his lower lip.

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“So… Good day today?”

“Mhmm.”

“That’s nice to know.”

He stopped for a moment before he made a move on it, thinking he could probably lie to them the next day saying she refused. But maybe the world knew more about her than he did so he decided to give it to her all the same, a nicety in gratitude to her for collecting him from school that day. He thrust his hand down his pants.

“Mom”, he said.

She knew what was to happen for she didn’t quite seem alien to the whole thing. She sighed.

“Honey”, she shook her head, squeezing her brow (or what was left of it). “Haven’t I-?”

“I swear…” he said, handing the pen and the page to her. “I haven’t seen it.”

She took it in hand, a worried look playing around her eyes. It wasn’t the first time that she had felt that particular piece of paper in hand. It wasn’t the first time she had seen what was on it either. She almost smiled.

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“I’ll be back in a couple, love”, she said as she dropped him home. “Take care.”

The boy tucked the page (that now had her clothed in her autograph and a pair of hearts) back where he brought it out from and as he walked towards home, the door was slammed shut and the car sped out through the gate. There was quite a bout of silence before she exclaimed, looking at her watch.

“Shit!” she said. “I’m late.”

FIZZ

He leaned to his right and that wasn't a bias or bad posture, it was just where he could find some glass to stop his fall. And it wasn't like he was falling already, neither can I say if he's back from being down, but as much as I'm allowed, I could see him wetting the screen. Not really an exaggerated gush of tears but just a trickle that found its way somehow. Phones in his ears, but I can't say why, maybe his mind was so loud that he didn't want more; or maybe he just wanted the steam to stay where it was, not wanting out at all.

He got his ticket, nothing big or maybe not because there's no real time and place to kill oneself; there's no time and place to find it all either and I could claim to know more about it than I'm allowed to boast about and I'd be right about it too. I didn't know if he'd welcome conversation, I'm not a woman. And he was just a boy, I needed intention. Didn't take me long to find one anyway.

I debated a while on touch or call, but then I thought I'd wait till he looked this way, a gamble worth fifteen minutes of my life. I simply had to make sure.

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I read his lips, he was talking to me. I was sure he wasn't the one singing 'Edge of Desire' inside my head and that's not because I knew John Mayer came without a beard. It was mere impulse and some sort of pragmatic thought, and I don't know why I started trying to explain it in the first place. I had to pull my earphones out to make out what he was saying.

"Which college?"

"IIT", I said. "IIT Madras."

He questioned me no more, neither did he react in any fathomable way to what I said (not that I looked for it, though) but he managed to put me in a self-analytical (maybe self-deflating) state of mind as I tried to find what could possibly have made him ask what he asked me. Maybe that totally wasn't what he intended to throw my way, being just a residue of some screwed up thought that beards like him could be capable of. Maybe he was gay and I had long hair, and no I'm not American enough to get there upfront, there could be more tangible, yet relevant explanations to that than that.

Maybe the tears, yeah, that could be it. Dress sense, listening to music, lips that phrased English words, he could have thought I had a breakup or something, as absurd as it sounds, I was just misty eyed on a humid day, or maybe he was sick of seeing a grown man 'cry' and so he prodded me out like how you feed the child to shut its mouth. No, I still can't be sure about that. I don't know if or if not I was crying the first place, it's the kind of time when you think about something and it gives you some emotions and then you think about something else that turn your previous emotions to something very alien that a revisit would only make you all the more surprised, I really don't know. Or maybe it's just me.

I flicked a tear on glass because I liked to see it on something else, or maybe I just wanted to see more of myself in a sort of non-self way. He had a shoulder bag that hung to his side at the height of his hip to his right, and there could have been a million things that he could have held within, most of which would have to stay outside to leave some space for those within. As much as the mind can rave, I happened to think of a couple of things.

I thought Laptop, Brassieres, Cash Register, Milk Powder. And Detonator.

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Needless to say, even lesser so to emphasize, he got down at the next stop and 'he' got down at the one after that. The bomb blasted in Baghdad.

SUMMER

‘Summer’ is one of those things that kind of always stay on a to-do list, or well at least my ‘to do’ list, and it’s a huge kind of feeling now that I’ve taken it off of there, you know. Now it’s like just ‘Warcry’ that’s sitting there as much as ‘My Book of Rhymes’ is concerned, and I’m still kidding myself about how I’m waiting for magnificence. Well, maybe I am, I don’t know.

It’s something I’ve been wanting to do for a while, yeah (having established that enough already) but now that it’s done, I don’t feel like it’s the same thing that I had in mind, or rather it is NOT the same thing that I had in mind when I thought I’d write something called ‘Summer’ in the first place, let me put the scenario it was decided on, in the first place. Tom Hansen walks out of Summer Finn’s house, destroyed, devastated, totally at a loss with Regina Spektor singing “I’m the Hero if this story, I don’t need to be saved”, and the moment was like wow, it’s one of the rare songs that perfectly fit a situation and not vice-versa, very movie-made at that. And the only reason I’m stating these things is to state the obvious, you know, show how different the ‘final cut’ is from the first sketch, and I’m sorry if I’m juggling bowling balls here, specially with chicken arms.

“Fire smiles on frozen eyes,

trying to keep your noses dry,

with bodies bare

and closets stacked,

the warmest heart I ever had;

still, living with a half of me,

with twice as much as what I need.”

The lyric was intended to be a sort of ‘Do you know me?’ rhythm, very repetitive and I actually spent a few nights of hitting myself up with ‘Hummingbird’ (from his ‘As/Is’ volumes) and the most I got out of those were mornings of humming the same, nothing more. ‘Summer’ turned out to be pretty much the poem, but then I consoled myself by looking at David Gray and Laura Marling, poets with a guitar (or a piano), you know.

“Fashion falls with winter brand,

the smile of fate in underpants;

in rainbow streams and wavy hair,

selling signs of ‘In Repair’…”

I don’t know what it’s called in non-layman terms, but I’d call it some sort of duality, an omnipresence in two or something like that. ‘Summer’ is a girl and a season (not a ‘girl for the season’ or something as horrid) and ‘Summer’ is for a girl, probably self-instructive as much as preachy, but I liked that. The ‘girl’ part, I mean. Discussing glory days through the ‘Summer’ metaphor and addressing gloom and loneliness with the whole theme of it all. I don’t drop names, she’d ‘know it, when she sees this’ (insert ‘Love song for no one’ ambience over here).

“So what, so what if time can stop,

so what if it’s the leeward side?

So what, so what if leaves don’t fall

in autumn twist to autumn shine?

So what if you can’t move a thing?

Cheer up, it’s still Summer time…”

I know I’ve used a hell lot of ‘time’ over here, I’m kind of worried this could entirely replicate my ‘Night-time’ of the distant past, but seriously… Cheer up, you know. It’s Summer time, let her shine.