Ode to Oscy

It's been a week since Oscy passed on
And not a day has gone by
Without me thinking about something he'd done
Many a time, on the sly

Paper, plastic, rubber bands
Anything was he game for
Slinking away, silently chewing
Even a dirty diaper
He must've loved the letter C
For his favourites began with it
Cucumber, coconut, chapati and cheese
He gobbled up every bit

Whenever I went into the kitchen
Or opened the fridge door
He would instantly be there looking up at me
Or sniffing at the floor
Just in case I'd dropped something
He wasn't always particular
But if it were Parle G
He thought it was spectacular

I make it sound like he only ate
And didn't do much else
But no, he was a most active chap
Evinced by his tiny bell
Which rang every time he walked
Or sprinted around the house
True that he hadn't been wearing it for some time
But sneaked about like a mouse

Every morning when I came down
He'd be waiting there for me
To nip my ankles, ask for a treat
And stare expectantly
But what I loved even more
Was how he played when I tried to leash him up

Before I took him out for a walk

Ah, he ran around like a little pup

He wasn't wise or grumpy
But simply goofy and so sweet
He was little, yet large
With a presence that's hard to beat
Many parts of the house
Remind me of him
Especially his kitchen corner
With the light above so dim

I miss seeing him curled up
In the laundry pile
Or in his bed under the stairs
As if he'd walked a mile
From his little bowl
He drank so much water
And if that wasn't enough for him
He'd drink from a brass planter

From under the glass dining table

He always stared up

His melty eyes ensured

That our dues were paid up

With everyone at home

He had a special bond

We all miss him in our own ways

Many memories we'll hold, forever fond

It's Oscy's birthday today

A teenager he would've become

I'm sure he's celebrating somewhere

Our little rascal, and then some

friendship and chocolate

thick hot chocolate
coats and warms my cup and heart
like old childhood friends

#notinmyname

a silent protest.
their first of many, i hope.
never in their names!

not so grown up

the runway beckons
five little fingers clutch mine
a pilot, not yet

achtung!

soft
like cookie dough
crumbly
like a cookie
but she was firm under fire

stagnant

wind won't stop blowing
the ocean won't stop churning
let go and let live

an end, and a beginning

almost five years now,
honestly though, more like ten
i've moved on, have you?

on mother's day

i'm not sure how i feel
about mother's day
even though i've been a mother
for more than a decade

do i need a particular day
to feel like you care
breakfast in bed and gifts
can't i get them at other times, however rare?

i wonder sometimes if i deserve it
have i really been so great
or have i just done what i was supposed to
as determined by the fates

i've birthed and nursed and cleaned
and fed and wiped and burped
i've read and sung and danced
and clapped until my hands hurt

i've sat down when it was time for lessons
and read and taught as well
i've cut out pictures from books
and cursed the glue for its smell

i've driven back and forth from classes
and then played down in the park
i've run up soon after to make dinner
before it's gotten dark

as much as i hated those PTMs
i've gone to school off and on
to smile, sign and say see you soon
before the next term rolls along

i've done all these things
without thinking about them a lot
but do i want to feel special on one particular day
no, but here's a fond thought

i want you to remember
all the things we talked about
when we weren't discussing lessons or chores
yes, those few times you didn't pout

about friendships and love
and about the world that we live in
for there will come a time
when all of it seems like it's sinking

then, i may not be close by
and yet i won't be far
so call, ping or text me
let's catch up in a bar

and talk, cry and laugh
about everything under the sun
we'll need it, and then some more beer
before we go off and have some fun

that's actually all i want
this mother's day and the next
and the next, and the next
cheers, until you send me that text

loss

it's been just a week
but memories of four years
feel like a lifetime

moves

moves are painful

they force you to look at
all the stuff that was boxed up
all the things that were hidden from sight
all the dust balls that were quietly swirling

they force you to decide
what to keep and what to throw
what has done its time and what has a few years
whether something still has a place in your life

they force you to recall
moments from photos
memories from keepsakes
milestones from cards

they force you to confront
what was beautiful before it turned ugly
what was memorable before it became a memory
what was once your life before it killed you

they force you to say goodbye, even if only temporary
they force you to express, which you may not have otherwise done
they force you to appreciate, when you might have taken for granted

moves are painful but they are necessary
to help you remember why you did what you did
to help you process why you're doing what you're doing
and most importantly, to help you see why you're better for it

technology - part one

the other day,
i was flipping through old photo albums.

no, not the musty, dusty kind
that have spent many years in many cupboards.
or ones that have moved around in cartons and containers
from one city to another, or even across the oceans.

not the ones that make you turn your head every which way
because the photos are hanging in odd positions,
clinging to the pages because the glue has dried up
or to memories because they have faded.

not the ones which have a cover
with the date and occasion embossed
sometimes in gold
where you know what's coming before you even turn a page.

not the ones that require you to climb up stools
to reach the top most shelf of an old, tall cupboard
open, close, open, close
until you find the one you're looking for.

no, these albums are handy
and really so
in the palm of your hand if you want it
or at least on your lap.

they are neatly organised
almost as if designed by someone with OCD.
and you can organise them further
any which way you want.

by day
by date
by people
by place

they are smell-free,
but maybe an effect for that will come soon.
the photos don't move,
but you can animate them.
they are in frames that can't be changed,
but that's likely a malfunction.

but you can do other things to them.

want to make them happy?
apply some sunlight.
want to make them muted?
apply a fade.
wish the person's face was bigger?
apply 'the crop'.
wish it was shot at a different time?
apply a filter.

they'll never get lost
unless you forget to back them up.
they'll never age
unless you have a fall.
they won't stop evoking tears of sadness or joy
despite not being touchable or smellable
and they'll never be out of reach
unless you walk away from technology.

is there an easier goodbye?

special covers,
lines highlighted,
the smell of time,
dog-eared pages.

choruses,
the one line that healed,
the one tune that choked,
scratched beyond recognition.

faded,
torn,
worn,
small.

gang of girls,
PJ parties,
chocolate and calorie sharers,
fellow drunks.

small,
spunky,
spirited,
scratched and dented.

it's never easy to say goodbye
to a missing book, a favourite tape, that pair of jeans, friends or a lovable car.

yes, i know change is the only constant.
i've learned it enough at school
and i've experienced it enough in life.

people come and people go, and it's the same with stuff.

keep the connections and the memories, and let everything else go.

that's what i tell myself, and that's what i've done, too.
i think.

because then, it's easier to say goodbye.
just slightly easier.

boxed-up feelings

i wish there were boxes inside of me

and that each of them was labelled

with all the feelings that i'm feeling right now 

clearly demarcated

fear, anger, sadness

confusion, love and envy

each one sealed in its own box 

without them getting all muddly

because, in and out of their boxes,

they very often seem to jump 

causing mayhem in my mind 

because they treat it like a garbage dump

was it anger that caused me to act in a particular way

or was it sadness, instead, that had plagued me through the day

how can i forget fear and confusion

when both emotions have left me in a sticky situation

out pop joy and love
suddenly giving me some respite

and in go the others

thankfully without much of a fight

many a time i notice

that all of them sit tight

inside their boxes, doing nothing

especially late at night

and it's at these times when i am blank
that i write about how i feel
with objectivity, i think
that helps me, with life, deal

i wonder what would happen

if i switched around the labels

would they act their new part

and spin me some new fables

or would they continue to jump

in and out with glee

and leave the acting of the part

solely to me

raindrops on my face

the breeze felt warmer,

the road seemed longer,

and the trees didn't sway as much.

there was a stillness.

she felt more deliberate too,

like she had to think before taking a step.

the fluidity was gone,

and so was the lightness.

it was a usual evening.

she was off on her walk

just the predictable routine,

a few rounds around where she lived.

but something felt different, something felt off.

was it the tunes?

but she had heard them before.

was it the place?

but she'd been there so long.

was it her thoughts?

her head was so full!

was it her heart?

it felt so heavy.

whatever it was, it was too much.

suddenly, something changed.

it got cooler and the leaves began to rustle.

the breeze blew her hair every which way

and she felt herself moving faster.

faster and faster!

she felt a few drops land on her face,

and then, the tears which had been brimming for awhile, flowed.

any town

moulded plastic equipment, child-safe of course
waveboards, skateboards and roller blades in a rush
beyblades spinning, basketballs bouncing
trash talk with foreign accents at every corner
gated community with ID cards to enter and exit
spic and span walkway regularly mopped
swimming pool, fancy gym and manicured green spaces
california palms neatly lined

bengaluru, not bangalore

permanence

one week since i fell,
the scrapes and bruises have healed.
scars, old and new, stay.

wounds

oh come on
it's not so bad
it happens all the time
and it will happen again
it's just a small scrape
and a little bit of blood
it's not so bad
i say

his eyes well up
even more than when he came home
his lips quiver
and his voice shakes
it's small but it hurts so badly
and it's bleeding so much
you don't know how I feel ma
he says

i've fallen a lot, and i know how it feels
so bear with it just a bit
a little medicine, it won't sting
really, it won't
i've used it a lot
you're so brave, come on
i say

aaaahhh it hurts
you lied ma, it stings
you don't know how much it hurts
no I'm not brave
don't touch it
just leave me alone
he says

and i do, i walk away

lost in my thoughts, i wander the aisles
lost in my thoughts, i check off my list
lost in my thoughts, i pay the bill
lost in my thoughts, i step out of the store

and thud!

too lost i was, i paid no heed
to what was on the floor
bags, purse and more scattered around me
a sharp pain, one that i had forgotten
and a smear of blood that wouldn't stop
and a heavy feeling, one that i can't explain
is what I took back home

the stinging didn't go away
neither did the bleeding
and the worst part was
that the tears didn't stop
i told myself all that I told him
and i did to myself all that i did to him
but it wasn't enough
it wouldn't go away

i thought of something then
about memories and remembrance
how fleeting they can be
and about hurt and pain
how fresh they can be

maybe what we need
is hugs and commiserations
not, despite what's all around,
bravery, or stories of it

he saw my wound, maybe he felt my pain
he called it gross and smiled
it was his turn to put on the meds
and it was mine to cry
he hugged me and I cried some more
but it wasn't in pain this time

George Michael - Untitled

George Michael was my first pop star crush. The image of him with a blue jersey, longish hair and arms crossed is so vivid in my mind--my first poster. His music played incessantly at home, in the car and everywhere else possible. 'Faith' was an oft-hummed and whistled tune in the house, even by my parents. When my friends and I listened to the album, I turned down the volume (a bit) to 'I want your sex'. 'Ladies and Gentlemen' was the last album I bought, and 'Jesus to a child' was my favourite, if I could actually choose one. Hope, in times of despair and sadness.

On a somewhat recent trip home, I found a faded and torn life-size poster that my parents had gifted me for a birthday--torn jeans, white vest, bracelets, stubble, aviators, leather jacket slung on the side and staring away at a distance with a smile. Ah, I wish I had taken a selfie with it.

He was sexy, he was cool and he had a fantastic voice that held a note time and again oh so brilliantly!

All things past, for he is no more. 2016 turned out to be his last Christmas after all.  

And what have I learned 
From all this pain 
I thought I'd never feel the same 
About anyone 
Or anything again

But now I know 
When you find love 
When you know that it exists 
Then the lover that you miss 
Will come to you on those cold, cold nights

When you've been loved 
When you know it holds such bliss 
Then the lover that you kissed 
Will comfort you when there's no hope in sight

Your music will always comfort me. mwah.

crazy little thing called love

it comes in many forms

yet, we struggle to understand it

an ideal version is what we look for 

one that fits the norms

that have been ingrained in us

a perfect other, a soulmate

someone who understands everything

who gets us in and out

right from the first date

isn't that what the movies say

not just the movies, but books too

and music, even those who rock

and comics, posters, cards and more

reinforce that this must be true

can we blame ourselves for believing it

but what happens to the rest

who have loved us and who still do

in their own way without definition

a way that, in us, brought out the best

all thanks to the multiplicity

of thoughts, feelings and experience

of what they've learnt and seen

in a gentle voice that doesn't judge

and to converse, is ever so keen

where do all these connections go

why do they get lost

is it because we sometimes pull each other 

so far apart that there is a cost

a toll that leaves us drained over a period of time

all because we want to possess, and feel, "they're mine"

also because we're louder

and supposedly mentally stronger

but are we really that

or are we hiding behind a mask

one that either smiles or looks tough

because both help handle the harshness

oh we've been wearing it long enough

and then one day we realise

the damage this has caused

from closing these other worlds

until at some point, when we are paused

by some circumstance or the other that lets us think, breathe and be

and look at our lives, minus all the certainty

then dawns an understanding

one that doesn't come from books

or movies, posters or cards

but only from taking a good look

at all that's happened in our past

everything that's shaped us

things that we can never change

but things that have made us

it's us, and them, and so many more

that we need to forgive for our own sake

it isn't easy, but what else do we do

so we don't make the same mistake

and more important so that we may find

the spirit that seems long gone

the one that was shaped by many

the one that will never be alone

can we bring back these worlds, one by one

back into our lives

and start slowly on the road to find

dare i say, sanity and a love that doesn't bind

insanity

sticking together through plenty, but feeling stuck,
physically side by side, but mentally so far apart,
forged by commonality, but equally split by it,
in sync sometimes, but completely lost otherwise,
that's life apparently, and that's what we must endure.
or so we're told.

isn't that insane?
apparently not.

insane is something else.
it's if we don't plan but live in the moment,
it's if we find liberation in difference,
it's if we fight for a cause, one that may not only be our own,
it's if we express, but quietly,
it's if we feel, but gently,
it's if we question without accepting blindly,
and it's also if we accept openly without judging.
we are the insane ones, the ones that need to be cured.

and there is always a cure, or so it seems.
happiness.
superficial, easy, stuff,
an escape, a distraction, a hobby or a class.
but these things will, at some point, pass.

and then we'll be back to reality.
but what reality? whose?
the loud one or the real one?
the majority's or the minority's?
the one we've been taught or the one that we see?
the one that's fast or the one that we feel?
binaries, alas.

we need more.
more spaces, more acceptance, more love, more time, more conversations.
not more stuff and not more rules.

insanity is dead, long live insanity.