Pens and Pages

"You'll always be late for the previous train, a nd always on time for the next.”  ― Piet Hein I rejoice whenever I get a window seat on Indian trains whenever it’s a chair car (otherwise Upper Berth would be my spot), more so when it is the last seat near the door, usually marked 4. There’s always more legroom for those who get the last seat. The TTE (Train Ticket Examiner) sits in the same seat on the other column, marked 1, which feels quite safe for a single woman traveller. When I need to leave my seat for a short break, it’s the TT (in short for TTE) who would watch over my luggage. When I need to ask how delayed the train was, it was again the TT, my neighbour for the journey. However, sitting near the TT comes with other experiences too apart from the sense of security. There would be travellers without a ticket, looking for a vacant seat, who would sit on the TT’s seat itself pretending it’s theirs and later being laughed at, when busted. There would be peop...

I like solitude, to be left alone for a date with my thoughts. It’s beautiful the way you do not feel lonely even though you know not a single person in the place you are in, in the city you are in. Although I have travelled alone before, gone to places all by myself, I’d never be entirely alone- I’d meet friends in the city or along the journey. This time I decided to make my comfort zone a little wider, to add one more escapade to it- a solo trip of four days and three nights to Udaipur, a must-visit city for tourists in the state of Rajasthan, India. Beginning with the transportation from Gurgaon/Delhi to Udaipur- I luckily got flight tickets cheaper than that of train. I booked the tickets only a week before my departure date; train fare was somewhere around 1700 INR while airfare was around 1500 INR. (However, the return tickets cost me a fortune so I still suggest taking a bus or a train for those who have the time and patience/) I expected Day #1 to be an uneventfu...

Someday you will tell them your story. But darling, do not think that they'll listen to it. They will hush you up. "Pretend that it never happened," They will tell this as they avert their eyes. They will not pat your back. They will not see how brave you were. They will only see the scars and not the wounds. All they will wish for is those scars to disappear. But dear, when you have born those wounds With all your heart and might, Dare you not lose the scars. Scars that define who you are now, Scars that will tell your story When the world will shut their ears, Scars that will pat your back And remind you of the courage you had shown, For, darling, you will need to be brave Again And again.

Broken bones and a bruised face, He checked the mirror- The nightmare's back again. Palms that bled and fingers without nails. An empty heart and a blank page. He feeds himself on the frozen salad- Last year's leftovers, he did not forget. He could let go of sleep Or he could sit and bleed. He chooses to embrace the red So, within the four walls, he stayed. Why stay when you can leave? But all of this has happened before, Not a curse, it's a habit, he said.

Exactly a year ago, I was stranded all alone on the highway of Kharghar​, devoid of people, with the cell phone on my hand losing its marbles just when they were needed the most. Two men and a flock of goats were the only living beings to be seen on the road, if I do not take in account the grass that lost its greenery to the dirt of the vehicles that pass by, probably years ago. I went to one of the two men - the one whose clothes were less disheveled than the other, but disheveled nonetheless and as dirty as the grass I stepped upon. He combed his dark, oiled hair with his long and thin fingers as I approached him. I ask him in a polite tone, hiding the desperateness inside me," Bhaiya, aapke paas mobile phone hoga? Ek call karna tha". He shakes his head and I almost lose all my hopes on making a call to my friend. He says, "Phone nahi hai. Par mere tab se call ho sakta hai, Chalega?"

Of late, I have realized I left too many doors open. I have this habit of not shutting the doors when I should, of leaving some space as tiny as a cleavage. Some doors I have shut a long time back. I didn’t simply shut them; I slammed some, the way only a teenager does when she is angry because her father snatched away her iPod. Some doors I struggled to close, one inch a day. A few of these doors are still left ajar, not awaiting someone’s arrival, but knowing there is nothing to hide behind closed doors. Closed doors – I think it’s easy to close the doors, to hide underneath the blanket of comfort, to pretend there is no world outside. Of late, I have realized easy is no fun at all. I have been trying to unlock the doors I shut eons ago. The rusted latches refuse to comply. Some doors I closed a few years ago, are giving up trying to stay shut. I look at the rooms these doors protect – mostly empty, devoid of the life they once used to hold. Was it only after the ...

I tried to save him From the demon I knew I'd be. He came a little closer, Claiming his love for me. But all the men Who've ever loved me Have loved but only For a short time of Spring. Now in the middle of this storm When he still hasn't left, I wonder if he's real If he isn't a daydream. For I've heard of men like him But never really seen one. I've met men like him before But only In my poem.

Who is she, That ugly old woman? She says she grew up Facing the vagaries of life. Oh, didn't I do the same? I would tell her Had she not been so vain. I looked at her eyes, Puffed up as if she just cried. I've spent sleepless nights crying, I could tell her, Had she been my friend. Who is she, That woman who looks nothing like me? She is dressed up in black, Mourning the death of someone akin. Haven't I mourned deaths? I have mourned them Till there were no tears left. I would let her know But she seemed tearless herself. Who is she, The lady I couldn't like? She runs her fingers Through her long grey hair And sings songs of despair. 'Who are you?' I asked her, at last. The answer I couldn't bear As I kept looking At the image in the mirror.

I have seen fresh flowers decay; I have seen them rot and die. So, I know things end And I could just sulk and cry. Tears slosh within me like waves. No, don't look at me in the eye. For even if your eyes touch mine I'll just run away, hide and cry. Things will never be the same Now that you're leaving my side. Who knows if we'll meet again Or if it indeed is our last Goodbye. Goodbye.

She whispers words in my ears, Songs in my head, Dark songs in my soul. She vanishes as dawn breaks. And when the night Covers me With its starless blanket, She appears again On the doorstep. Two gentle knocks On the wooden door. Third, She calls out my name. She then whispers my name, Again and again. She sings songs of the past, Songs of the dead. She wears the moon On her face. But tonight's a moonless night; She bears no face. She whispers death in my ears, Songs in my head. Songs forgotten, Songs of the dead.

I bite the bitter leaves Of the tree that grows in my backyard. I pick up the yellow ones, Dying and pretending to be Beautiful, Both. I hear her speak, In that familiar accent. She laughs aloud; A shrill pitch in her voice. Deep red lipstick on her lips. A little more flare in her hair. Her eyes beam as she talks. I look at myself, Then I look at her. I was more real With the leaves I hold on to. She plucks flowers From my backyard. I feel sorry Both for the flower And her. Fake, I called her once And made her cry. He called her beautiful. I looked at her again, And that made me cry.

You're all words, When it is your death. For people by then Would have forgotten How to love you, again. They would remember You not, for your deeds Were forgotten too soon. You lived on the smell Of ephemeral cigarettes, On the taste of bitter beer And the whiskey that burns Your guts as it vanishes. What is it that you'll leave behind? Your beauty was forgotten When you succumbed To the wrinkles of aging. Your smile is no longer charming When you hide the gum That misses a tooth. So what is that you'll leave behind? Probably, those words, Never spoken, Only written down, On the bark of a tree To be read by strangers Who know nothing about your struggle. And when the tree dies, And the soil embraces your words, Probably it is then That your soul will rest As your words will finally leave love For the soil, That you couldn't.

May be I finally understand now or may be I never will... She escapes a country to find herself in another. The rummage, she knows, can never be over. Perhaps one life is not enough to find one's true home. You travel to places, you seek comfort, you travel the entire world just to find a sign of it. Perhaps this world is not enough. Another world, another life or may be just another day could be it. May be now I understand why he has given up trying to chase his dreams, why he has finally given in to mere dreaming. The world is too realistic for him to be. Dreaming is comfort. He travelled the world to find his home - not the home where his family would be, but where he could sleep peacefully. He now knows his fears aren't real and so his scars. He hides behind those scars, while in another country, she wears her scars proudly and continues her rummage. She is living her dream, albeit unhappy. But he, he knows his dreams are more real than his fears. And someday, in their ...

I think of the words I would like to say Of love, of separation and your brief stay. I think of you as I walk the town On lonely evenings on the nearby lawn. You quietly follow me on a gentle morning, I turn around and you're no longer near. I write the words on a piece of paper. I write a poem; I write you a letter. You touch my hand and I cease to write, I turn around and I see you fade away. I think you're gone and I need to move on. I swallow the words, I bury it all. I tear the paper; I let you go While you stand there, mutely watching it all.

I bleed blue, I bleed it all out; A single gun-shot, And a deep wound. Like a broken ferry on a vast, vast sea; I tremble, I shiver, Drenched in the cold memories. They still know your name; They ask where are you. For I was you then- Complete, Unsullied. For they still are there In the old battlefield, Fighting another war. I've changed; I've been soiled. I've bled all hues; I've seen it all. My sore wound rots; I await no war. Sullied, Smeared, I collapse, I shiver. Broken and twisted - I am you now.

I saw the shackles That made you bleed. I wiped your tears; I, too, wept. I saw the shackles That bound you so; I saw them cut into your flesh. I didn't see- They were, but, me. My tears and my hopes, Expectations and more so. When I did remove My blindfold, I set you free, I let you go.

From a tiny crack On the lush wrist, Out, flowed A thick liquid, Crimson coloured, From the deepest Of the bluest Of veins in it. "Let us go," Said each drop That dripped on The floor, As it gave away Its hue. "Let us leave too," The liquid screamed From within. The floor Embraced Each drop that spread And so it Turned Slowly, blood-red

There had to be a reason why he is today the way he is. He'd either stand out in a crowd or he'd be like an invisible gush of air that passes by which no one cares to notice. But nevertheless, he'd always be alone, away in his own thoughts.  They say everyone has a story to tell yet there are stories we never get to hear. Stories of pain, of grief, of trauma. And these stories would make you wonder if they are true. And then these stories would tell you that it matters not if you do not have a good job, a good love life, or social life or a good career. Because when we talk of death, nothing else seems to make sense, nothing else seems to matter. He'd always talk of things that would seldom make sense, if at all. And what he couldn't say, he would write. He had to write. There was no other way. For the only one who'd listen to him had left him far behind. And she went not to a place where he could meet her, even if for a day. She went to an abo...