Of Words and Water

Transparent herself, lovely water conforms herself to the clarity of this glass I hold. Shapeless yet margined, she can do nothing but generously lick the dykes of this vessel I hold. Lovely water, she who dances when I foment so mild a shake, I ask you, what is your thirst? Do you seek to rest in the abode I have conferred? No? In the corner, a lit candle stands. Her flame laps the air in range and therefore takes fitful shapes. Perhaps you want to trickle and draw yourself volatile contours like her. No? It is decided else that you crave to be like the all-pervasive air. You wish to diffuse with all your vigour – never confined, never defined. Tell me, oh your loveliness, what happens to my glass – her purpose for which you have no respect, no whim of clinching. My dear glass that pines for consummation yet allows lovely water to seep out to seek her want, my sentiments is what you suffer. Words, with their innate lawlessness, rebel succumbing to me and justifying my articulations. How then will I form my expressions, carry my assertions, deliver my postulations? While your water relinquishes you and my words fail me, I stand here as helpless as you.

The glass I hold, I tell you, one would indeed be a fool to believe that I have achieved to convey by these very rebellious words a minuscule of my view.

Sehnsucht

My life, a stage upon which many figures did dance

With them I let my time meaninglessly abate

They shared my joy in every possible chance

But who was there to commiserate?

In my mind did creep in distressing doubt

As plagued hours turned into failed years

While I kept stretching long to look out

For a soul-mate who’d wipe away my tears

My road of wrong decisions, I looked back upon

The asphalt that bore many a fight

As I look towards future, for the past had gone

I couldn't help but yearn for it to be right

I was searching, as usual, and the sun shone on me

He sat there all by himself in a dim alcove

Looking at his face, mine instantly lit with glee

From the trenches, out the volcanoes, did gush out love.

We relished our similarities, cherished our differences

Somehow, familiarity never bred contempt

Respecting one another’s opinions and preferences

Our connection grew thicker with no deliberate attempt

His companionship made me forget my search and my chase

I looked up to him for what he valued and thought

There was meaning in his ramble, honesty in his praise

Since he called me beautiful when others called me hot.

He is the piece that makes me feel complete

In him, I see man, company and friend

From this point, my chase becomes obsolete

For now, in his arms, does my search end.

Threesome

2003

Akira and Katie had the best stuffed-toys, the worst disputes and the most indifferent moderator, me. On a particularly sultry day, Katie ran into my arms with a distorted teddy, sniveling bitterly. Akira is such a bitch, she declared strongly. I nodded aimlessly, what seemed like an innocuous option.

Akira piercingly observed us sitting together at dinner table. She carried her chagrined face and sat elsewhere. When the dessert was served, Katie finished her helping and greedily eyed mine. Not while I am alive, I warned, with equally expressive eyes. She looked away, disappointed and pouting. Remember? Akira hates pudding! I hinted, daintily rubbing the pudding-orts off her lips with the yellow bib hugging her neck.

Kicking random stones, I was rambling back to the dormitory when suddenly Akira slid her hand into mine and Katie showed me a familiar teddy. Akira told me I can have hers tonight, she beamed, with bits of pudding sticking disgracefully on her lips.

2008

Smrithi was a tomboy. Anitha was a crybaby. As it is tradition for masculinity to taunt femininity, the indifferent moderator was forced to sit between and referee them in class. Despite Anitha’s extra red eyes today, Smrithi tugged at her skirt, pulled her hair and stole her homework sheet. No, today she didn’t sob. She yowled. You, yes you, go sit behind and don’t cause any more trouble, the teacher precisely pointed at me. So much for doing nothing, I snarled at them.

When everyone dispersed for lunch, Raj is cheating on me, ON ME! Anitha bawled, and rebelled to join us for lunch. Extra food! Smrithi celebrated, pulling Anitha’s lunch-box as she walked out of class. Hunger obliged my feet to follow hers.

I walked Anitha to the bus-stop after classes. My inexperienced lecture fabricated to convince her that ‘it wasn't meant to be’ earned nothing more than an unconvinced hug. She thanked me anyway and sighed, Wish Smrithi was this understanding! The hug was distracted by the sight of Raj limping towards us. I’m ashamed of myself; you’re the kind of girl who deserves better, he groaned with pain, clutching at his right feet, his pant torn at the knee. Smrithi stood behind him, with her sleeves folded up to the elbow. He gave you a red eye, I decided to give him a black one.

2012

Swetha, the extension of my intellect, partnered me for the event again. We hardly wrote anything! You think we’ll get selected? she quizzed, as we exited the hall. Don’t be silly, we always clear the first round, I assured her. Jane will tell us! we said in unison.

Jane always came early, skimmed the notice board for our names and acquainted us with the positive results. Today, she wasn't at her place when I rushed to class five minutes late. Second hour, still no trace of her. The third and the fourth, nein. Who was to provide me lunch today? I wondered. Swetha burst in with brine running wildly athwart her face. Jane’s down with Jaundice! she screamed wildly and pushed her lunch to me. She’ll be fine, said this indifferent monster, lost in gobbling down curd rice.

Being Miss Goody-two-shoes, Swetha would never laugh at or comment on professors even if they advanced beyond digestible stupidity. Being the emotionally-immune robot, I was busily engrossed in counting my hair strands while she narrated relationship-stories.  In a couple of days, we knew we couldn't stand each other anymore; frustrated inside, faking tranquility outside, ready to vent out hysterically and part ways. My gadget vibrated timely, displaying Jane’s face. ‘Grls, I’ll cum 2 clg in 2 dys it smz. Its borng w/o mkng fn of profs wth u nd w/o hearng Swe’s romntc strys. I knw u bth wldnt hv chkd ths on d notis brd.. u bth got slctd 4 d nxt rnd. Cngrtzzz. Miss u 2 loadzzz.’

With spark in our eyes and pens in our hands, the coagulated mutual vengeance subliming briskly, we dashed to the event venue together.

Like the old magpie song:

One for sorrow.

Two for joy.

Three for girls.

Seek Not My Heart

Oh gentle winds 'neath moonlit skies,
Do not you hear my heartfelt cries?


Below the branches, here about,
Do not you sense my fear and doubt?
Side glistening rivers, sparkling streams,
Do not you hear my woeful screams?


Upon the meadows, touched with dew,
Do not you see my hearts a'skew?
Beneath the thousand twinkling stars,
Do not you feel my jagged scars?


Seek not my mournful heart kind breeze,
For you'll not find it 'mongst these trees.


It's scattered 'cross the moonlit skies,
Accompanied by heartfelt sighs.
It's drifting o're the gentle rain,
A symbol of my silent pain.


It's buried 'neath the meadow fair,
Conjoined with all the sorrow there.
It's lost among the stars this night,
Too far to ease my quiet fright.


No gentle winds, seek not my heart,
For simply ... it has torn apart.

Pause, heave, and... Move on.

The heart* was made to be broken. - Oscar Wilde 


           No, I am not talking about evanescent affairs or annihilated quixotic relationship. The cardiac can also shatter with demise, disappointment, deceit, insult, inefficiency and the like. The shatter is then companied by hysterical rage. Tears, masculine or feminine, are oft sensible when they well up due to anger rather than anguish. Anger, being profoundly venomous, could also be your motivation, your rocket fuel to success. (Take it from RajniKanth films.) Where a time machine seems impractical, it is vain to detach yourself, cry a river and wish for a rewind button in life. Also, never consider revenge, for it is the filthiest of emotions and deeds.


           These downfalls in life are in fact a blessing in disguise. Know why? You are more enlightened in life (of course, after you cry your river and tear at your hair) and you get to marvel at your strength. These are the times you will be cognizant of the people who always cared for you, where you can throw away those sad songs, pull up your socks, sport and be optimistic about the rest of your life.


                                              

           The question is… do you want to rot like a carcass? No, right? Every breath you take after your mishap is the proof you can stay alive accepting it. Time has it’s adroit scheming of dissipating hard feelings. Meanwhile, you can aid time by learning to distract yourself and keeping your personal light on. For the measure of a man is the way he bears up under misfortune. If something is foolish enough to fleet away from you, be smart enough to let it go.

             I am so clever that sometimes I don't understand a single word of what I am saying. :P Just take this one thing from me.

            Getting over a painful experience is much like crossing monkey bars. You have to let go at some point in order to move forward.

              Let’s honour 2011 by moving on. (: 

[*Based on the assumption that the palm-sized blood circulating organ is responsible for emotions.]

As bronze as Bronze is.

His hazel flaring eyes instigated sharp passion in mine, as he gazed into the starry skies. ‘No, it won’t rain’, I assured him; fondling his head ‘You can sleep out tonight.’ He ran around my leg and monkeyed up my waist. Bending low to his imminent licking, I diminutively wished it would rain after all. ‘Good night, Bronze.’ I said, switching off the lights. He was growing old and feeble every night. I instantly wished his presence alongside me. I glimpsed from the window, examining his serene sound sleep, and decided against disturbing him.

Ma gave him food and cleansed him every week. Pa made his kennel and took him for morning walks. I kicked him around, saddled my chores on him, played with his food when he was hungry, made him sick and bullied him; yet, he loved me best. I once found Bronze wearing my filthiest sweatshirt, lying on a hamper since I could not bring myself to wash it (I still haven't - It is now in a closet safely wrapped up).

It did not rain, nor did the slightest drizzle dew the flowers. The tranquil night was replaced by a scalding morning, burning the petals and leaves, drinking water from the mud. Bronze did not wake up to the rooster, not to the milk or newspaper calls, not to the blaring horns, not to the scotching heat brutishly burning his face, neither to pa’s morning walk, nor to ma’s breakfast.

 He abhorred tears, doing his best to lick them away; and he never met a human that he didn't get to like him, including people who didn't like Labradors or even dogs at all.  He would dance and prance about on his rickety back legs and bark frantically (he was a bit deaf by then) whenever I offered him a treat.

His chillness spread as I hugged him to my bosom. I fixed my eyes on the sky, nourished with tears and pain; an expression of helplessness and anger. I caressed him, kissed him, lifted him and kicked him, childishly yearning for a response. The rationality of my education faded; the hallucination of superstition, prayers and dreams clouded me, as I searched every part of his unresponsive body for life. The torrential flow of tears was never enough to testify my emotions.

There’s something about Bronze neither a brother, nor a mother; neither a soul-mate, not a friend possessed, something that made him rush to the gate to greet me every single time, amidst his dinner, something that made him help bring things for me, amidst his sickness, something divine, something genuine. He always jumped around as if I were the best thing since Biscuit. He never cared if I flunked Engineering Graphics, or had a Texas size zit on my nose.

I opened the curtains and looked towards the kennel. His name hung, inscribed on a plate as bronze as his name. His air was there, his hazel eyes stealing the stars from the sky, watching me back, breathing, and waiting to play ball with me tomorrow.

Love leaves a memory no one can steal. Death leaves a heart-ache no one can heal.

Bronze left a misery, I couldn’t deal.

The Workout

                I panted as I dropped the burdensome dumbbell to the marbled floor. ‘That’s it, coach! No more now…’ I panted harder as I inclined down to untie the lace of my Nikey. ‘But you didn’t even... ’ Buzz! Buzz! The coach pulled out the vibrating gadget and answered the call. My eyes caught the gym door which opened to make the most significant entrance of the day. He was in black shorts and he smiled at everyone in the gym as he passed them. He slowly unbuttoned his pale green shirt to reveal the red vest beneath it, while he ran his other hand through his jet black wavy hair. ‘Hey buddy, how’s it going?’ He asked Jay who strolled up to him to greet him. They were catching up on Diego Maradona. He grinned and a steep dimple flattered his smooth shaven cheek. The trainer apparently terminated his call and greeted him with a hi-5. The trainer whispered something to him that pulled out his 32 pearls, laughing, with the sound reverberating through his body and then mine. He commenced stretching his muscular arms, with no loss of enthusiasm in his voice, as I inclined down again to untie my other Nikey. His long eyelashes seemed to romance with the wind as his gaze alternated between Coach and Jay. Sweat started breaking free from his limbs. He cachinnated at a ridiculous gossip bit as he involuntarily wiped away a bead of sweat over his right eyebrow. The three walked towards the weights, where I was rolling down my socks. As his eyes caught mine, he flashed a smile which instigated a sharp twitch down my spine, well enough for a minor org***. All that escaped my face was a shy blush. I had to rotate my head a 60 degree to acknowledge the coach’s ‘Not so soon, lady. We’ve got a match to think about.’ ‘But coach! I am famished!’ I interrupted. ‘Let her go!’ He said, leaning his face toward mine and buried his dark chocolate eyes into mine. ‘She really is tired. The poor lady needs rest.’ The warmth of his body aura accelerated my pulse. The trainer gave THE look, ‘Rest, my foot!’ with mocking skepticism sketched all over his face. ‘Let her go!’ he pressed. The trainer contemplated at the wall for a while. My pulse rate aggravator slowly grabbed my middle finger and crossed it over my forefinger with an optimistic grin. ‘Oh alright! But be back by 5 am sharp tomorrow.’ ‘Thanks, coach!’ I said as I dumped my footwear into the stuffed gym bag in a cloud of hurried happiness. I turned and saw him sipping water from his bottle and said, ‘And thanks to you, too!’ His Adam’s apple ran up and down with every gulp and he finally pulled away his sipper from his mouth, over which a half shaven mustache complimented his smile. ‘Anytime!’ He said, as I was disappearing through the door, with his beautiful dimpled smile painted all over my mind.

                Do I love him because he’s beautiful or is he beautiful because I love him? :/