Musings

22 Jun

I got a new pen. I broke it in patiently until the words that came out flowed like silk. As time went on, I wrote your name once, twice in pages far between. Slowly, without knowing how, your name was what I doodled during long phone calls and sleep inducing lectures… Each time I wrote it, my world hinged on the pause between the syllables of your name. I said it softly, with a goofy smile on my face before my cheeks became stained with red.

I don’t know what went wrong later. Sinuous, like the smoothest of chocolate, the words were pieces of my heart seared with you; crude, misshapen and jagged.

Now when I write, the ink glistens red.

***

It feels I have taken him into my blood. And I let him out each time I say his name, cheating time as I become one with him, if only momentarily.

Like drifting waves coming back to the shore, each time with more longing than last…

The world rushes by in a blur and it is exhilarating. Finally, I am flying instead of just looking up toward the sky. Suddenly, the landscape changes and it is all a blur. I know the pain is coming. Time slows down, almost suspended. The impact feels too long in coming, yet nothing prepares me for the eventuality.

I am left wondering if any of it was real. Or did I want it so badly I convinced myself it was?

***

© My Rickety Typewriter, 2016; Vintage Ink.
No part of the text – partial or complete – may be copied/ reproduced or transmitted without prior permission from the author. The content is the intellectual property of the author. The above applies no matter what way the access to the blog was granted.

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Lumos

23 May

I trudge up the steps as the curtains fall on yet another day. I walk to the terrace and see the inky blanket they call the night sky dotted with innumerable windows to the past. As I trace their outlines and join them to form constellations, a plane goes through the small circle my thumb and forefinger makes, ripping apart the fabric of my cosmos. And in that one instant, I hear my heart stop. Is it you on the plane I wonder. Each time I see a plane, I want to ask you, are you coming home? And in the few seconds it takes for me to go down this road, the plane has flown past.

Was my heart always glass? Or did you turn sand through fire?

***

One side of a paper. White. Unblemished. Not so much as an ink drop. Pristine. I wonder if it will be enough to hold all I feel. The longing pours itself drenching the words with a hint of brine. I scoffed at the idea of barely half a page to tell you what I saw when I went to places I have never been. Now I am out of words as I realize that there was never a moment when something didn’t remind me of you. The mountains, the meadows, the sculptures, the paintings. I can see your look of indulgence and exasperation as you come with me to places you didn’t know existed if only to hold my hand and kiss me as you listen to me ramble about how breath-taking something was and why. And so I try to cross the oceans between us, if only for a moment, as you complete the circuit by thinking of me.

***

© My Rickety Typewriter, 2016; Vintage Ink.
No part of the text – partial or complete – may be copied/ reproduced or transmitted without prior permission from the author. The content is the intellectual property of the author. The above applies no matter what way the access to the blog was granted.

A Fairy Tale

8 Feb

For Poojya.
For telling me its okay to let go. For making me understand that sometimes to get over the spells of sadness, we need to fall back on happy memories. For making me realize writing is cathartic.

***

The earth an unfinished painting
Biding its time,
For the return of the artist’s hand

Heat and pressure building
Causing it to change and grow
Infinitely more precious now,
Uniquely crafted as it is
Swarovski crystals hiding in shame
At its sparkle

Giving new meaning
To pristine perfection

Tugging at your heartstrings
Making you sigh
At the simple beauty it presents

Falling softly,
Captivated by the light
Dappling through your eyelashes

It rushes to learn
The contours of your face
Living for the moments
It caresses you
Hoping to last forever,
Like the memory of
your first kiss,

***

It was my first glimpse of snow. 

***

© My Rickety Typewriter, 2016; Vintage Ink.
No part of the text – partial or complete – may be copied/ reproduced or transmitted without prior permission from the author. The content is the intellectual property of the author. The above applies no matter what way the access to the blog was granted.

The Umbilical Cord

16 Oct

Sometimes, you have to remind yourself, you were the one that carried you through.
***

For what are you, if not the collective history of civilization? A living proof of glorious triumphs, devastating conquests, heartache, love, incredible discoveries, catharsis and metamorphosis.

As you gaze into the mirror, tracing your features, do you see the gentle slope of your cheeks, the shape and colour of your eyes, the dimples that peep out when you are feeling happy and a bit sassy? What are they, if not the remnants of ancestors living on, vicariously through you, in you?

Do you realize those eyes of yours have once gazed at lands that now no longer remain? Their colour changing through the years and being passed on.  That some part of you has walked on cobbled lanes, through unspoiled woodlands, seen events that we read as chronicles from an era gone by, known of secrets that have been lost in time and yet, preserved in you? The soft notes you create as you speak were once heard millenia ago by people who are not quite the same, but still are.

A giant web have we woven, not knowing that we have changed inexplicably, the course of history for simply having come into existence. Jigsaw puzzles are we, with pieces from far-reaching places and people we don’t know, but for the ones we have seen growing up. Interlinked, crisscrossing, a small twitch as we walk tight rope, changing a life light years away, without knowledge of the power we wield.  Searching for the truth, honing in on something so far out of reach and implausible, we don’t even stop to consider the possibility that we are the linchpin.

In a small tube, barely the size of my finger did I realize for all its fragility, nothing is more omnipotent than the double helix that rules us, letting us believe we are our own masters.

The next time someone asks who you are or what you are, tell them you are a slice of history; amassed over time, wonderfully cherished, painstakingly preserved, leaving an indelible part of you in everyone you meet and every place you go.

When you catch your reflection, understand that you are looking at the dot that connects the past, present and future of the human race with million others. Every one of us is the centre, from where radiates a hundred thousand connections, permutations and combinations of events, parallel universes and infinite possibilities.

© My Rickety Typewriter, 2015; Vintage Ink.
No part of the text – partial or complete – may be copied/ reproduced or transmitted without prior permission from the author. The content is the intellectual property of the author. The above applies no matter what way the access to the blog was granted.

Postcard

20 Jun

Someday you will miss me. Someday when I stop hoping it will happen. When I stop holding on even when you aren’t looking back.. Someday..

Not like a ton of bricks, love. No, not as simple as that. It will start small. You will wake up one day to your mundane routine. You will probably find out too late you are out of bread or batter and you will just decide to stop for a quick coffee when you will feel it first. A small whiff of that mix of incense, sweat and hibiscus.

You are going to stand dazed and shocked, in a drunken stupor even as you wonder if I passed by you.. It will follow you around throughout the day. You will gather courage and go look at my profile. You will probably trace my features, lingering over the dip and curve of my mouth, even as memories show you just how much I smiled.. Kissed.. Touched …

Nothing will be free from me. Not even that blue shirt you got last week. You will envision me wearing it, sleeping disheveled and smelling of you, as you wake me up to a morning of languid exploration. Someday you will know, the gaping vacuum in me. That which stings for all its emptiness. Someday, you will miss me, just as much..

And your eyes will fall on an old, forgotten photo where I am looking at you, smiling like you were all I wanted. You will hold your hair and scream my name in desperation, much like an addict for his fix.. I promise you, you will collapse unable to bear the onslaught of memories.

***

© My Rickety Typewriter, 2015; Vintage Ink.

No part of the text – partial or complete – may be copied/reproduced or transmitted without prior permission from the author. The content is the intellectual property of the author. The above applies no matter what way the access to the blog was granted.

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