The Baggage

Its been a while,

since I saw him on the flight I took to India. 

He was beautiful. 

his hazel colored eyes sparkling as he flicked away the tousled brown hair 

away from them. 

He was silent, that boy

his face a mask of monotony,

not once looking out towards the golden hued clouds

.

They must have fought- I tell you, and yet

his deep brown eyes stood out in the crowd.

His rugged breathing was hoarser than the sound of the baby,

 wailing down the passageway. 

Just as hard to ignore, 

and when once he caught my eye,

his beautiful smile almost broke my heart.

the flight was long, 

and I was tired

.

As i dozed off, i saw him resting lightly 

on the hand rest,

softly moving through the  turbulences.

But I tell you, he was worried,

for all the excess baggage he had boarded on with

-S

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The Space Between Us

Could you ever fall in love with a place, even before you knew it existed? This is not a trick question. I'd genuinely want to know that is it possible to fall in love with something that might have not made its presence felt in your life, ever? 

Perhaps except in your dreams.

. 

And perhaps this is one world- this world of dreams, that opens up new and unexplored horizons- of possibilities, of knowing and of awareness. As a person driven by the language of the universe, I feel that our dreams tell us a lot, speak to us in different ways. Its been a while that I have been journaling my dreams, and what I find mysterious is how vividly the minute details stand out in the realm of my subconscious mind. Writing about love in her book, the Interpreter of Maladies, Jhumpa Lahiri notes that falling in love with a stranger - is sexy, but the moment when I saw you in my dream- a part of that truth changed. Or maybe the equation did. You were no longer the stranger I'd never met, but in fact recognition dawned in as I was watching another me. Another half of me, that had been hidden away, whose presence had been revealed to me just as the mist of consciousness had lifted. 

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Its beautiful, how in our dreams even the language of silence speaks loudly. There is nothing that is spoken and yet there is nothing that remains unsaid. Its just the awareness that matters- like parallel  worlds, mutiverses, where planes would just meet- only in this case it'd mean intersection of  our awareness. And amidst all this, amidst all the promises we had made to meet at the end of the world, between lines that which is truth and that which is just an illusion, it was not you I had thought of.

.

For you were always the drug that kept me alive-

the only addiction I ever had,

And even as I search for a place to hide in some far away galaxy,

that is place is just so far. 

That even if I did escape, 

It'd be the awareness of you that'd keep me sane;

For you were always My own personal brand of heroin;  

as we stay united,

even in our own disparities. 

-S. 

Blue

Blue-
is the warmest color, they say;
the color that fills one with life, and happiness-
scattered and refracted across the sky and oceans,
forging-
    that inevitable bond between land and sea,
   one that exists between life and death.

And yet, when asked to choose one,
to define my life-
 the only color that seemed warm
  was the hazel staring back at me-
    each time I look into your eyes;
like the warmth of a city-
   slowly thriving,
                throbbing and pulsating with life,
under the throes of a scary, cold winter;
this warmth -
     (yours')
      stays within me,
like the fire that burns in a Dragons' belly.

I'd known such hues,
 only in the color cards I'd choose my colors from-
to fill up my palette.

I remember,
   looking into them-
  once,
while you were ecstatic-
  and while you never intended to charm me,
 the veins within them were so distinct that i felt myself,
.
.
.
drowning-
  within a melange of a million kaleidoscopes.

Blue, is the warmest color they say,
   but my ochre-eyed angel,
   do you know,
    that hazel, could be warm too.. ?

-S.
   

The Story of the Fall...

                                                              (i)

How do you tell the story of falling in love?
 the story of the fall that-
never was the fall,
   that was slow at first,
      and then as rapid as a meteor,
shooting past the darkness of the city-
   that lay unaware of the celestial dance,
      we had inadvertently led ourselves into-
setting it ablaze,
      like the stardust,
      we were made of,
shimmering, glittering, leaving behind a trail,   
  of love,
of hope.

                                                           (ii)

How do we tell the story of 'us' falling in love?
     the story that had no prologue;
     we never said the word 'love'
     we didn't have to,
It was around us, in our laughter,
in the sense of wonder I found in you.
I saw it in your smile,
    the smile which was home,
    that turned a 'nothing' into 'everything'.
        
                                                       (iii)

How do I, tell the story of us falling in love?
When all that I have with me is a memory,
  nestled in my mind,
     waiting to be fragmented,
the one that awakens each time i close my eyes.
 "Us"
walking endlessly,
into the dark,
where the flickering lights gave way to the stars.
And amidst the conversations we had,
about nothing and everything- I remember the warmth of your touch.
You remember that too, don't you?
I sometimes wonder, if I was there at all.
And yet my heart knows,
that, 'that' was the beginning of it all.

-S.

    

That "No" Never Meant a "Yes"

This is the hardest thing I've ever written. Hard not because I don't have the right words to express my thoughts, but simply because I don't know where to start. When I'd been writing about how I have healed over the past year, towards better, I also realized how, many people have been a part of this journey of self healing, in a lot of ways. There were women, who supported me. But this support worked differently. I'd speak to a lot of women, discuss their problems, listen to them and the acknowledgement that I've helped them grow, in fact helped the growth in me. But that is not what I intend to write about, here. 

.

Over the past few days, with the advent of the #metoo campaign, the social media news feed has been bustling with stories of sexual abuse, people faced at some point of their lives. It is surprising, how a colossal section of us, have been subjected to abuse as children, when we were probably too young, too naive to understand, or contemplate things. It leaves scars, which probably would never heal, leaving a buzz inside our own head, "Was it my fault?" What is even more surprising is the fact that this feeling, of being at fault perhaps becomes a part of our demonic inner self. We however, have come a long way, in being able to share our experiences, our thoughts, claiming that we belong to that generation, where acceptance is virtue.

.

Or is it?

.

Abuse, in an form is not easy, to come to terms with- whether it be at our workplace, on roads, or even within the safe haven of the family. It becomes exceedingly difficult when the person in question turns out to be someone, you'd once respected and in some ways admired. How do you come to terms with the very fact, that someone meant to protect you, would ravage your existence each moment you are alone with that person? Thanks to my loving parents and my sister, I've always felt protected, safe even when they are miles away. Their very presence giving me the strength to go on with life, whatever the situation might be. But when something of this magnitude happens, your core is shaken up. And when I speak of acceptance, of women empowerment, I speak of women who have stood by me- supported me. But here it comes- acceptance.

.

In spite of all the support, I was questioned. I was asked why did I stay silent? Why was I being a disappointment? I resorted to the very thing I usually do, I wrote about it. To that, people said, stop romanticizing things! You should've done this or that. I can clearly remember the way I felt maligned when the person in question, was in the same room as me. The bile that rose in me, when he tried repeatedly to grope me, when he put me in awkward situations. Time and again. And to everyone, who'd question "Why would you stay silent?", let me tell you that it was not easy. Coming to facts with this- was not easy at all. 

.

However, over time, I gathered myself up and I confronted him, and then I was blamed, for saying a "No" that was not strong enough. My only question here, is that does the connotation of a No change with time? It does not. And people, men, women, need to understand that. Its great that people are being aware, of the vices others face, but by being judgmental, they are not offering any solace- they only end up aggravating an already serious issue.  

.

The only thing that will help, is the awareness, that it is not our fault. That  no is meant to convey a certain aspect, which people chose to ignore. That we, as individuals, are not answerable to the entire world, for the choices we make. That its okay, to protect ourself,  even from our own loved ones, if need be. That in the journey of self discovery, and healing the only thing that matters is our own faith. 

.

Being strong does not mean having to accept things as they are. Being strong also doesn't mean shouting out to the entire world, what we are going through. Being strong is as much about holding on, there when its all about to collapse. 

.

Stay strong.

- S.

The Power of Healing

Halfway across the globe, away from home, from the country that is basking in the lights of festivity and celebrating the joy of enlightened souls, I sit down, brooding with a cup of tea. The only thought that crosses my mind is the realization, how another year has passed- away from home. Certain things in life, should never happen. Like being away (from home), on Diwali, right? I am digressing from the point, and with this dawns the fact that how an entire year can morph our lives into a new whole.
.
The peculiar thing, about distressing events is that, they are particularly coward; they never occur singly, but always in packs and leap out as us all at once. And before you even know, you'd find yourself slipping- through the cracks of reality, landing in a void, displaced and lost.
.
Displaced- and you'd be stuck in a limbo- waiting, for that closure, which may never arrive, putting everything on hold. Putting your life, your dreams, your sustenance on hold. This closure, is such a paradox, a veil that separates acceptance and reality. An imaginary boundary, which, when crossed calms down all our demons. I've seen people trivialize the insecurities other's may/may not express rendering them too emotional, too naive, too connected to things that happen around. But I believe that love, that connections touch our souls, bare them, and they stay- in some form or the other- sometimes as memories, sometimes as heartbreaks or bitter experiences and build us up. I feel that in each moment that I've moved on, from people, from situations, I'm still stuck. While I choose to leave behind parts of me, there are parts that I carry ahead, and these I have realized helped me heal. Helped me be better, every day- in smallest ways.
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There was a time, not so long ago, when I'd look back and still sink- within the abyss of hopelessness. But each day when I accepted my own vulnerabilities, my own pain I learnt acceptance. I learnt that pain could coexist, with immense happiness. And that to live, to survive we need not become different from who we started out as. That bitterness need not change the core of who we are. And that when we heal, we find that beautiful sphere of happiness, where we grow, evolve and be our own true self.
.
Always.
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Happy Diwali. Lighten up your soul. <3

Gateway to the dreams

Only last night, the gateways to the world of their dreams had not seemed that unreachable. They'd spent scores of nights, right under the starlit sky , dreaming of things that they's later remember as remnants of a forgotten life. Dhrubo'd be sent away, having been discovered, into a realm far beyond her reach. And Ashima'd wait. For days. For Months. Perhaps, for years, harboring the thought that he'd come looking for her. Just once. She'd get married eventually, letting the incandescent flame of love burn somewhere in her existence. 

.

She'd be happy, in her new life, learning to accept the aphorisms of her common sense. She'd learn to accept the processes of the nature, still valorizing the love she had once been a part of. She'd believe in the possibility of an alternate universe, a parallel existence, when they 'd been careful not to leave behind the red and yellow hand woven blanket on the terrace that night. The same blanket, which had seen the transition of their love, which had seen the transition from the quivering hands to the deep sighs of peace as they had reclined together. She'd continue to live a dual existence, fulfilling all the responsibilities of her matrimony and harboring the nascent thoughts of her love from a previous life. 

.

Years later, when she'd have emerged from a shy, vulnerable young girl to a stronger version, the austerity in her starched cotton draped sari, doing no justice to the demons she had overcome, she'd see him suddenly, in a market place, a fleeting glance. Her heart'd skip a beat, praying with fervor for a single glance in her direction and as if the Gods unknown would conspire and

hear her prayers, he would look up. And at that one moment, the realization would dawn upon her, that the entity she had lionized all these years, was indeed never to be.That despite being hailed as the victim, all along, it actually was the choice, that he had made. 

.

Would the realization let her live? Would she go on with her life as ever before? Love, that has no boundaries, has no rules nor gender would  become a long lost memory, and stripped of all her illusions she'd perhaps find herself.

- S.