Am I allowed to feel?

If it’s okay,

To kiss you like we are in a dream, about to wake up,

Then I’ll hold you up against the wall and do that.

If it’s okay,

To talk about the stars making weird shapes,

While we desperately want to fall asleep under them,

Then I will create a canvas of shapes as far as your eyes can stretch in a gaze.

Look that’s a heart, I mumble sheepishly.

If it’s okay to stand on rooftops and feel the wind on our faces,

Drive a skyfall across my skin,

I’ll want us to fly.

To test these shallow waters that keep us inches in trepidations,

If we are permitted to love,

I will dive in still for answers.

Do we sink or stay afloat?

And now I know that I am okay.

It is alright,

To talk about what is not important,

At one in the silence of the night,

And

It is allowed,

I am allowed to feel.

My existential dilemma

To soil I return,
Crumbling into dust at the touch of your fingers,

After I have stopped thinking about this life.

A life that’s purposeless and important,

All encompassing and yet a shadow.

And I cannot fathom why we’re here,

Battling it out on a mantlepiece.

Do I stretch my thoughts to a quarter life crisis?

Do I read myself through scores of novels, both silly and grim?

This is about me: flesh on a heart that beats intermittently,

A person with a mind obsessed with my own perception of this world,

Melting,

Whisking away in embers the dying light of the day.

Wanting like the moon that leaves the sky once in a while and we never notice.

And it is, through numerous reruns into a past well forgotten,

I constantly become one with my million faces.
Aparajita

Wake me up

Wake me up,

When the sun isn’t so brutal outside,

And I don’t feel it burning a hole in my skin as I walk.

Wake me up when they have stopped looking for me.

When it’s dark outside for as far as you can see,

And you will know not a soul cares for where I have been,

When their gazes savor of a hungry voyeur,

Wake me up from eternal sleep.

Us

We are men and women.

Some of our days begin with odd jobs-

We are busy lifting things and loading them in truck, our soiled vests and a sweaty skin gleaming like polished shoe surfaces in the sun and yet by our own admission, we’re invisible.

We are driving autorickshaws, plying people from A to B, day in and day out. Some of these people sit at their desks and prepare reports that ought to be something substantive. Some of these people have people working for them, forging blocks of metal into sheets, the jangle similar to a steel plate slipping from my hand and landing on my feet.

And there are of us, wary people of the same mould, worrying over the same things simultaneously: the safety of our loved ones and the safety of our reputations.

We talk about anything under the sun- about women who were asking for it and about men who are bothering us. 

This isn’t a feminist rant. It is about you and I.

You begin your day in a rented apartment and fast forward to work where you elaborate on presentations. I wake up and go where I work. I wake up and mop,clean,brush and dust for the madam that leaves her kid in care and keeps a foot in her cubicle and another in the creche.

You run, jump,skip,hop over obstacles and everyday is the same except that sometimes, you die. Sometimes, we die.

But still, you chatter around tea shops, discussing politicians and cussing them at the same time and I drop by, alight from my car and take a sip of the streetside tea while posting it on Instagram. You wear your overalls while machines buzz around you, a constant hum while you go wham. I, a ten year old kid see everything differently. Your world is so drab. I want to grow up already and have a job to pay for what I want. And you keep telling me to have fun while I can. Growing up seems fun too. You sit by the side of the road with last week’s produce that didn’t sell but I can see no one will buy it today too. I pity you, old lady.

You tell me I should buy this insurance and you have targets to report. I have choices to make. 

These are just thoughts of a clueless mind about what we are, all of us.

Some of us can’t see colours. Some of us lose the will to carry on while others tell us their survival stories. I wish I could record all of this.

Men, women and transgenders because seeing the world in polar opposites is like trying to fit it into a zigzaw puzzle when it is not. It’s a seamless transition of states of matter. From skin to charred bone dust, from skin to termite infested flesh in soil, from present to the past. 

People.

People who marry the person they love. People who don’t like such people. People who have no qualms killing but find it difficult to look at PDA. 

Children who don’t know what discrimination is, but will find out when they realise growing up is not that bed of roses they imagined it would be. Children who refused to grow up and have to be trained at schools for children with special needs.

Children with parents and without them. 

This is going to take more than this. Maybe a series of posts. To talk about nothing else but us.

And to learn to empathize.

Reason rests where it’s louder.And not where it’s dead.

Magnet

We are unsure,

If there ought to be an outrage,

At murder by the masses.

And why is that so?

Maybe because we want somebody to point our fingers at and scream:

DEATH TO HIM!

And because the mob,

Might have one of our own.

And let’s not be blown away be emotions yet.

An eyebrow raised,

You pick up on the news.

Oh, just some man beaten to death by the crowd.

You assume, that between one and many,

Reason rests where it’s louder.

And not where it’s dead.

We are unsure,

If one murder is one too many.

Aren’t we doomed as well?

Our own houses are not on fire.

On our chariots led around by horses high on ego,

We attract offense like magnets

It sticks to our skin and clings like a pin on its head trying to balance the act.
We, flushed in our sweltering self worth,

Cry out loud and are joined by the crowd.

Like magnets.