The Sundering

If moving on were as simple
as the march of blue feathers
forgetting one wilderness for another,
then perhaps I would hop on
a magnificent creature,
its plume crimped together
in a ball of kindness.

But such creatures do not exist, you know, don’t know?
You know too of our tragic descent.
The eyes below,
hunters in winter.

Sometime soon we will find our chests emptied out.
Only some wind in there thereafter.
The wind that the wings of a flailing bird makes.

Rooftop

Fog like dots of dull incessant pain
sharpen in the night, like stars,
like lights framing those little windows that
must surely mean something
mean people around a table twisting
their guts in laughter.
But for now it doesn’t matter what it means.
What I felt on that cold roof with the
menace of gravel underfoot meant something.
It surely meant finding meaning in everyday
actions becoming a chore.
The task of being itself becoming a chore
so arm yourself with everything worthwhile
and liberating. arm yourself
an icepick through sleets of mundane
with dew-drenched blades of thought
that tug you along long nights;
and memories of the future
-if some such thing ever existed-
then you must must see them through.

Boston, cafe

When a woman his grandmother’s age entered the café, the boy saw a man’s head, with its dwindling foliage of grey and white, turn as if on cue. From the corner of his own eyes the boy noticed the man’s eyes sparkle. How long had they been together, the boy wondered, as the lady found her way to the man’s table and kissed him lightly on the lip. While they sat across one other, each with a book in a hand, the boy speculated if it was their first marriage or had they both been married once before. Or an adulterous affair, perhaps. Illicit passions acted upon. And every once in a while one of them turned the book over on the table and leaned forward to say something and they talked long and soft, laughing lightly and clamorously at different moments, before returning to their books gleaming below the cafe light. The boy wished for them to have been together since the time they first discovered love half a century ago, and how they must’ve trembled at the threshold of this labyrinth, only to venture ahead hand-in-hand, to learn that it was green and deep and endlessly satisfying.

Mumbai

I should be happier. At long last there are things of to be genuinely happy about. Mumbai, for instance, has been sort of a surprise. The city though did live up to its promise of being miserable for a while. During my first week here, what surprised me was how a teeming, sweltering city of more than ten million- where bodies churn together quite regularly- could be this lonely. Of course, I’m talking first and foremost about the miracle of the Mumbai suburban railway: so many bodies, so many touches marked by resentment- a place where everyone wishes every second for there to be less people.

Life has been better since. I’ve grown accustomed to the overcrowded trains the overwhelming downpour the dismissive autowallas the pain-in-the-ass traffic, among other things. Work is great; partly due to the ridiculously low expectations I had of it, and in part because of the wonderful people I’ve met there, who’ve been, on the whole, very kind. I’ve discovered new friendships here. Old friends and family live in Mumbai too, and I now sense it’s a place where I can probably drop anchor.

Despite this, I become very pensive at times. There are some reasons I know of: I’ve been slacking off on my ‘speech’ of late, resorting to avoidance behavior. Love- or the lack of it- is a perpetual reason. I was discussing this particular subject with a friend today, of elevating love as some sort of panacea, a cure-all, and maybe setting myself up for a major disappointment in the process. I told him we should stop philosophizing about love, stop plucking the idea apart with our conversations about its nature, its meaning and rest of those lofty discussions that make its absence bearable. We should try and stop thinking about it entirely for at least six months, I suggested. He gestured to the sea, and said: when you sit here on your own, how could you not think about it. Who are we kidding.

I write this guilty; as if I’m wallowing in something that might not even exist. Worse still: I am a whiny little prick with a high sense of entitlement. But sometimes I do feel detached from the world. What can I do? I feel like a boat unmoored, drifting through the night. And I ask myself: is loneliness just a state of mind? Then another question: why don’t I tell somebody, anybody, how I feel? And why do writers write things that they might not tell another soul?
I don’t know.

Sunday

This is not about
honing your heart’s survival instincts.

Not about brimstone, lip-numbing kisses
or sheets constantly shifting shape.

This is about the eyes of a wife
watch the twilight door open and
see a husband and not a lover.

This is about that compromise.

About practiced devotion.
The urge to domesticate passion.

Eyes of the wife falls from
the door to the fingers of her hand.
It’s been a lonely day.

In throes of sleeplessness

In moments of helplessness, no amount of intelligence or talent or courage can rescue you. After a hard day, an even more difficult night awaits you in bed. Your mind is a minefield of anxieties, and your thoughts tread carelessly all over.

Tonight you want desperately to believe in God. Believe what so many others adhere to and experience solace in. Somebody that doesn't grow estranged, doesn't abandon or die. A solid certainty forever. There’s a fine line between optimism and delusion and you desire more than anything to spring across it. And yet, the embrace of this particular delusion has failed you so often that you give up after a while. There’s so much reason stacked against it, all the hundreds of pages of well-reasoned data, which you’ve tucked into your brain, which is irrefutable. You hate science. Nothing makes sense. Life’s uncertain, illogical, and irrational and it irks you to think why you reason at all in the first place.

You remember all those moments when you sought God and failed miserably. You sampled Sufi music (it might nudge some spiritual core, you thought), searched for signs and symbols, flung your mind open to every argument on the other side of the fence, but all in vain. Once you thought you almost got it. Your first time in that Russian Church across the street- stained glass, vaulted ceiling, and a thick fragrance of incense that reminded you of something familiar, yet retained a peculiarity. The ceremony uplifted you for while; as you let those strange words, comforting in an odd way, pour into your head. (The newly faithful say they’ve had moments like this one, when something awakens within them, something so wonderfully mysterious and profound, that it converts them.)

You sense a force swell within you and carry it delicately back home. You nurture it for a day, and wake up the next morning magically invigorated. You arrive at church the next afternoon, a needle point away from converting to Russian Orthodox, when disappointment strikes you. It’s as profound as the inspiration that swept you yesterday. All you see are rituals and prayers and institutions and priests and extravagances, all the consequences of God that you so deeply resent and hate. You realize you’re a traveler who has ventured too far into the bleak dominion of rationality.

This might turn out to be the most vaguely annoying gibberish I blog in a while, yet perhaps the most satisfying.

Poetry Returns

An itch, the blooming of an invisible swell.
Rebel veins.

To ask alphabets, patience-
nothing but mutiny.

Better then sit down gather it all
zero in on where it all began
that’s where those words are begging
to be shepherded to,
this waterhole
in the middle of nowhere of myself
the heart of whatever pain that carried
them to the edge until
they had to let go.

There it is:

To know for certain the possibility
of never finding perfect love.