‘Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size. It’s in the reach of my arms The span of my hips, The stride of my step, The curl of my lips. I’m a woman….{Maya Angelou}

“..he turned n twirled her until she was a kaleidoscope of rippling skirts n flashing thighs and golden brown hair tumbled across her face”…{The Bell, Iris Murdoch}

shrinking room…my favourite piece of poetry as written by me in recent times (2007)

I closely investigate the question. It remains unanswered,
is my world shrinking too fast? I could see, a gray friendless
space, tears pooled at the curve of two flattened breasts.
Would all those trips, when I watched the sun sinking deep
into a pencil-thin border line behind the fields swaying in
the evening breeze, be left as post-cards with no messages
on my table? I planned to buy nautical blue-colored curtains,
cream-colored soft pillows, a crackle glass shades lamp
in the corner, just like the one I saw in his bedroom and
some other things for my world. I would have loved to rest
my head against the wall I painted in bright Oranges and
lemon yellows. My window opened into the night would have
turned its head to the steps of a tired looking woman in
high-heels coming down the walk. It would not have minded
giving coffee in a ceramic mug with yellow flowers printed
on it, to the emptiness that drifted in along with her body.
So much, I wanted to do. You see, my life is too dull, with
no events. The weekend crowds would have whispered over
foaming mugs of beer, there she goes after work, to her car,
gives a brief smile at those leaves fallen around, a brief flash
of her thigh as she bends on her knees to collect a few for her
book, goes for a brief shopping to get a fresh loaf of bread,
a pack of Italian pasta. She, without fail, would put the pasta
in a bowl, then add the tomatoes, milk, olives, grated cheese,
chopped sun-dried tomatoes and thyme, for her Sunday breakfast.
I wanted to fill my days in my world with simple things. Just
a theory of nothing much. The other world I want to sleep with
someone has never gone beyond the breakfast table. With no much
regret to report about the world that slipped from my hand, I
wanted to dress up my little world, I wanted to feel how beautiful
it would be if I space and design it with my hands, a friendly
invitation for crickets chirping in sync on warm summer nights,
to sneak under the crisp sheets, huddle close to me, anxious and
unmoving over a story : A shrinking world.

this self-introduction was written a few seasons ago *2005, and does not include a few hurts, a few layers of maturity, a splendid journey with words that I have gathered since then…..

“Spring’s glad choir adown the valley pealed, and Violets trembled in the morning dew, now is there silence through the woods, in whose green depths I lose myself!”

“All alone, in a reluctant season, a woman of naked breasts, filling the empty spaces with the conversations mixed with laughter, tea kettle and the warm aroma of fresh baked bread in the kitchen, a week before the desolation of this afternoon”

A cue from the philosophy behind “Smirnoff” -”well they said anything could happen”, Life is all about attitude…we just need to live it up! It’s about rediscovering self, ability to be passionate about life, stretching the edge of being compassionate to all the handsome/beautiful individuals who enter my life, savor all those books who might fade away, but never die, enjoy those enigmatic/surreal rendezvous with the demi-Gods and be “the woman, the core thought” behind those electrifying lyrics. “wish to swim in the placidity of your eyes” {P},”the expression you embody” {D},”chirper,where u?your silence is betraying!” {M}, “Jojo, you are such a wicked child! {Z}…” “am never too far away…{S}”, “its the same small town girl, all cuddled up, sitting somewhere in the backwaters under a straw hut, looking at the skies, waiting for the rain to stop, so that she can make a paper boat and play in all her innocence….. that’s where the rebel girl is fighting to get free…{*}, “Drenched was the velvety grass, pearls of dew shimmered with those joyful silver beams of moon, we strolled, our conversations wandered off” {with H}.. “hey doll, how are you” {R}….I gather many such precious feelings n hold them close to my bosom…UMM {u know this is a casual menswear brand..},my talk could be “overdosed” with brands/strategies, Trends analysis,” Blame it on my positioning of an Advertising Professional/Strategic Planner…” An intriguing stranger” made me realize…as I sway to ……Girl, you’ll be a woman… soon! I love you so much, can’t count all the ways, I’ve died for you girl and all they can say is,” He’s not your kind”…Don’t you know…”Girl, you’ll be a woman soon, Please, come take my hand, Girl, you’ll be a woman soon, Soon, you’ll need a man…”“Books and Men” come into life when you need them….”There is no frigate like a book to take us lands away.”! A rich n vibrant motley of vintage n contemporary… moved from romantic mysticism to “A picture of my existence… would show a useless wooden stake covered in snow… stuck loosely at a slant in the ground in a ploughed field on the edge of a vast open plain on a dark winter night.”…yup, the legendary work of influential thinkers, moralists moves my gray cells off their slumber n enables me to experience “man’s search for freedom within his laws-the existentialism”, keeps me bewildered about the complex DNA of relationships… Kafka, Herman Hesse, Edgar Allan Poe, Turgenev, Pushkin & other Russian authors, F.Scott Fitzgerald, Albert Camus, Iris Murdoch, Sartre,Ernst Hemmingway, PGW, Tom Sharpe, Tom Robbins, Tom Holt…..the wistful, inordinate hopes n dreams! and I grew up with the Russian brigade - Tolstoy, Pushkin, Turgenev, Gogol, Chekov, and other prominent names in the Russian literature….  

Calvin & Hobbes and “Le Journal exceptional d’asterix” keep the child in me enthused! the wicked kid letting self constantly be exposed to the existential battle between “conformity” and “individualism”. he fights a battle of choice between his own will and the outside forces..do I have to dwell upon the delicacy and elegance of the gaulish warriors? Could Cacofonix be sweeter! while, keeping “Faith Popcorn” within at my arm’s reach, as she continues to hold me with her analysis of the latest trends in Human behavior ….the Celtic tunes blended with nature, Blues, the ethereal “realism” as woven by Dido, and the “Cultural Crossover” man, Josh Groban keeps me rejuvenated!

Hopelessly Romantic by heart…Bryan Ferry’s “Slave to Love” encapsulates me, I guess..”Tell her I’ll be waiting In the usual place, With the tired n weary, there’s no escape To need a woman You’ve got to know, How the strong get weak, You’re running with me, Don’t touch the ground”“Play the way you feel it, But listen carefully to the sound Of your loneliness, Like a heartbeat. only me, Who wants to wrap around your dreams and…Dreams of loneliness. In the stillness of remembering what you had…And what you lost…

Am acquiring a more powerful sensuous edge through spending my time with brilliant “expressionists” like Pablo Neruda, Kate Chopin, Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath…finally, my dreams of being in the literary world taking shape underneath the sheets…have begun playing around with my playmates “the words”!on my porch..

“Suddenly a thunderous performance unveiled
in the skies,the city swiftly captured by the storm
throbbing wild,unsettled I moved under the warmth
of my quilt,to hear the sea lamenting over the
dawn rising sad and subdued.A soft rhythm of your breath next to me,

if I stretch my arm I could feel the smooth undertones of your skin,
reluctant I find my heart to touch the stranger in you,
where is the man I loved?the man whose eyes sparkled
at my passion?where is the warm mouth that kissed me?
the strings of heart beating against my breast?

I rose from the bed,leaned against the window watching
the rain drops slithering down to talk to the silence
unfolding in my eyes,I cried aloud in my grief,
none to mock my tears,none to laugh at my weakness,
none to fake a sympathy,I ran through those empty
streets,desolate spaces,drenched,slipped a few times
seeking you,to feel vulnerable again with your touch,
to watch my yearning submerging helpless in your love

I turned back to see you standing silently behind me,
a stranger ! when did you arrive - carrying stillness
in the air, looking at me as if a kiss previous night
sealed your mouth, unmotioned and nonchalant,
Oh! you seemed so far away, ruffled at the cry of
sea birds over the grey sea.

I crossed your street,I paved my own way clutching
the sad heart of mine,gathering those inactive moments
of silence, closed my eyes feeling the rain inside me
echoing my anguish “Will I ever talk to you again?”…..”

Have I never been so mellow and so lonely ……. huh!

“Underneath the sheets,
I was left with his scent,
an echo of his ardent kisses
on my love-stained lips;
a dark secret in serpentine
embraced around my naked heart,
a wicked butterfly fluttering
on my sweat-drenched skin;
a thick layer of frozen silence
blinding my playful eyes,
snatching away the resplendent
dyes of my world;
a secret possibility of :
his foot-steps at the door,
a cheerful voice singing
over my nape, the hope suspends
under my soft breath;
Underneath the sheets,
I am inhabited
by my lifeless dreams….”

how true, “we communicate best when we don’t communicate at all. We speak our truth in our deepest silences. we give our hearts away when our fists are clenched tightest. We love, despite ourselves and in spite of what we have endured. in spite of what we have seen of hate and loss and fear. We learn new languages, without words…” Hitendra wrote to me “being human is to experience everything. Even if it means making yourself vulnerable, exposing yourself to pains. but that’s what being human is. that’s what life is….”

“In hushed silence,
I watched the celebration
of unspoken words patching
the calamity between our hearts”

Why

 

 

the empty space beckons me to fill the silence raising over it like that silky brown dust, but am lost somewhere, the wet path leading to a serene brook, the traces of footprints telling me stories about a stranger at the brook, the fragrance hanging heavily around the trees seemed to brood over the words to be spoken against the tiny ripples of excitement in the waters……!

And
‘I commit a crime everyday…’promiscuity in thoughts’. Who will punish me?’ ‘Someone with who I can never live with, but could never stay apart…umm, spoken like a woman. Is anything wrong in desiring so?”