Encore

Once upon a time,

I watched,

Myself break apart,

The duct-taped pieces,

Crumbling into dust,

While the tape was still intact.

 

Under lock and key,

I placed a sealed box,

Cramped with these flakes,

I thought, were

Too fragile to face

Yet another war.

 

Time flew past,

I sleepwalked through life,

Constrained,

But happy, nevertheless-

Until I tumbled upon,

The box of broken pieces.

 

I ran my fingers,

Reliving those moments,

I felt no pain,

Only a placid sense of joy,

And in these pieces, I saw,

Myself, as I used to be;

 

Happier.

I picked up the tainted bits,

Burnt them into ash,

They will haunt me no more.

I took out the duct-tape,

Began to put together the scraps,

 

For it was time,

I reunite with the crumbs,

Prepare to face, another blow;

For it was time,

I braced myself to be happy,

Wholeheartedly.

 

Reality Rides

Crammed in a bumpy bus-seat,

Lulled by abrupt breaks and over-takes,

I hide my face,

In the crook of his neck;

I close my eyes, fighting,

To hold on, to every sense he is,

Fighting away, the teenage heads, drowned in tubs of hair gel,

The stale breaths of drunkards, cursing to themselves,

And piles of everyday waste, blowing in through the shutters;

 

I entangle my fingers,

Tightly around his,

Trying to feel his life beating through the skin,

Against the loud 6/8 tracks playing on the radio,

The crass, screechy conducting of the conductor,

And the relentless political breakdown from the gentlemen behind us;

 

I nuzzle under his chin,

Thinking how pointless this journey is,

For, I am home,

In the crook of his neck.

 

I breathe in every moment, with great care,

Praying for a prolonged ride,

Before he squeezes my hand to let me know,

It’s time to say goodbye,

And I open my eyes,

Braving my heart to let in,

The world I had blocked out.

Car Memoirs

 

Bitter Lemon afternoons,

While you drove us home,

Back when I first started school;

I take sips, feigning to be brave,

All but childish.

 

I dropped my soy ice cream once,

On the car-carpet, I was ten,

Sulked in silence; terrified,

You merely laughed,

Bought me one, all new.

 

Half a decade later,

The hybrids had clogged Lanka!

We talked cars, stuck in the traffic,

For me, it was always the Beetle,

You teased me to no end.

 

Then began the boisterous debates,

Over generations of music,

War crimes and whatnot,

Whom to cast my first vote,

I was turning twenty.

 

Two years down the line,

I stare at the lamp posts, grocery stores,

From every day;

You stare ahead, intrigued,

By the Marutis in the traffic.

 

Between us, chilled air. Silence.

Except for my “hmm”s and nods,

To your mandatory queries;

A head-turn, a single, “Thattha”,

Would revive the ashened conversations,

 

But we lag on,

Me, squashed with the guilt of the confused,

The massive disappointer,

You, burdened with remorse,

Of being a failure.

For

He would rather,

Nestle in her tranquil smile,

Let her soft fingertips,

Trace his jawline,

Than sit with me,

On the thorny ground,

And pick up

My broken pieces,

Buring his nails

In the coarse dirt

And the soot

From my bleeding soul;

I blame him,

Not.

Paper Past…

Stacks of paper,

Chits, notes and entries from the past;

Pictures and letters,

Holograms of places filled with faces cast;

Wings of nostalgia,

Forming curves on the lips, embrace the heart;

Hidden among the piles;

Maybe I’ll find, my lost pieces at last….

The magnet that is you,

Hauls off me,

Metallic peels,

Until there’s nothing of me

Left for me;

Waging war,

Against myself,

I battle,

To keep my pieces intact,

But they fight me,

And soar to you,

To be an inconvenience,

At your feet.

Call him the moon,

Then,

I loved him not

For the light he threw,

So gracefully;

But for I knew,

Of the debris,

Lying beneath

The supple ivory rays.

 

Home.

 

The embrace that held,

All my pieces intact;

The hand that clasped,

My fingers, compact;

My ground that never swayed,

While I swirled, abstract,

You were my home;

 

A cast away now,

I wander,

Aimless,

A vagabond,

Who lays her head down,

As shelter comes her way,

Closes her eyes,

Into a restless drowse;

Be on her way,

Before the dawn breaks,

No matter how,

The blisters

In her soles, bled.

Sing me a song,

Write me some prose;

Just prove me

That it’s not wrong,

To forgive you forth;

Assure me,

That all the tears,

Weren’t all for naught;

Just show me,

It was a friendship,

Worth fighting for…

Collateral Damage

As they hustle along,

To find their homes,

Carry boulders,

To strengthen their walls,

Leap beyond,

To fill their souls,

They knock you down,

Though you weren’t in their way,

Smash pieces of rocks,

On your gut,

Tread on your heart,

And never look back;

Do they ever wonder,

If you got back on your feet?

Do they remember

Whose blood painted their worlds?