Confessions of a boy

Those were days of struggle ; each leaf added to the tree. I waited each night, outside the trembling hut, waiting to see a lonely traveller in need of food or accommodation. “A man can sleep outside”, I remembered my mother’s voice when I initially started sleeping out, shaking and screaming at night in fear. That me doesn’t exist anymore. Of course, that mother too. Living alone, I had to fend for myself alone, but living-in all my life, I didn’t know the kind of work other men did. All I knew was to take care of the house and surroundings, to weave baskets out of wires, and to knit baby clothes. “What woman would like you?” my old mother would ask during her last days. I’d sit there like a good daughter-in-law, listening to the taunts at her husband’s home. Sadly, they expected me to bring a wife home. How do I tell them, that I’d rather be married off?

Heart Lights

Sometimes inspiration comes from places you’ve never heard of. Sometimes, it comes and you don’t answer the door. Sometimes, a hand holding yours seems warmer than your mother’s bosom. Sometimes a kiss would mean the world to someone. Sometimes somebody would pick you up and show you your right place and price. Sometimes, these dreams seem futile.

I started to write because I wanted to improve my handwriting but for you it might be your dinner or your wildest dream come true. I wasn’t made a star but I was born one. I do not shine for all like the sun but I wink with sparkling eyes at that special person. Sometimes, you never find that special someone.

When I walk the streets they look at me for I just walked out of their dreams. They say “he is my inspiration” but I have none. I walk alone without any inhibitions. All I got is time, leisure and power. What I lack is will. Will I?

That was the question. That was always the question. Sometimes, you need to ask the right questions. Answers are irrelevant. Someone did say so but I guess I was too busy with the question to notice who it was.

I walked into the rain, I walked all along with the sun and I walked out of the snow: I was. No. I am Perfection. But doesn’t that mean that I lack nothing? I believe I don’t. I don’t.

They often talk about a thousand different memories. I sing about them and they echo my lyrics. But what about my memories which always had four walls of thickest concrete about them? Am I a prisoner? But I am the only one who has known true freedom. I am that person who can touch anyone as per his whims while no one can touch him unless he desires that touch. And yet, he remains untouched by humanity. Only perfection touches him. He became Perfection.

Like the Sphinx, like Tireisias, like the Ardhanaareeshwara, he was complete in himself. Yes, I lack nothing; I am complete.

But when I touched her, a droplet of crystalline blood spilt from her chalice and I realized my imperfection. And she, like a naiad from my wet dreams, vanished into a puff of cassia fumes. For the first time, I realized my incompleteness. I wandered like a Fakir in search of that true music of my soul. She was a soulful melody who danced to my Sufi heart’s rhythm.  I became a wandering sage and she became my melancholy. A happy melancholy. Transience became her eyes and through them I saw the Baul in me. My Iktara became I, me, myself.

And she talked to me for the first time. The ghunghroo of her feet matched my Damru’s joyful skipping of heartbeats.

Dugeun Dugeun.

My heart beats.

Dugeun Dugeun.

Her face seemed familiar for the first time and I recognized. It was she. My eyes, my ears, my taste, my smell, my touch, my emotions: it was all her. She was my all. She was me and I am she.

And I entered my trance, yet again. I was complete, again. I am complete, now. You are my inspiration. You are the light that illuminates the darkness of my heart.

Darkness, beautiful darkness.

 

©

Stars of Destiny

Dedication

Jang Keun-Suk will always remain to be a bright star that ignites the minds of many and this I dedicate to him. Be the same, Oppa.

Stars of Destiny

There was a Star weeping in my horizon when I woke up from that nightmarish slumber. His reddish gaze melted my icy eyes. Why are you hiding in the dark corners of the Night, I asked him. Sometimes the dark visage of the Night is brighter than the bright agony of the Dawn, he retorted. But why do diamonds run down your cheeks like this; I wished to pacify. The Moon, the Moon – he wept with a roaring sound. But the Moon is just miles away from you, I said. Why do you cry? She will be with you in some time, I smiled. She’s dead, he told me. She’s dead! The blood drained off her cheeks. The Sun sucked the darkness out of her. Now she’s but a corpse. She’s dead, she’s dead! He wept with a roaring sound. And he fell from the high Heavens.

I, who was waiting for him, caught him swiftly. Deep in my heart, I felt the pangs of guilt as I secretly enjoyed the fall, for I knew that he had a different destiny. Moon is not thy destiny, I sighed. Blasphemy! He roared. You speak venom! He spitted fire at me. The Moon, my Moon. He wept.

In a fortnight’s time, the Moon entered her bedchamber to shut herself away from the hues and melodies of the outer world. And he wept for her all through the day and the night. So I held his hands throughout the day and the night and I saw him breathe moist smoke and felt his chest burn in the acidic melancholy. It hurts, I know. I told him. Hold my hand, please. I told him. And the pain will course through your veins into mine. I told him. And we will be joined in the pain, I told him. He didn’t recognize the warm guilt boiling in my throat. He didn’t recognize the sweet love beating against my chest. But he knew that I could be trusted and he gave me the promise of sharing. Of sharing pain. Of sharing.

As the petals of the days that came by opened one after the other, we blossomed as blooms of the same wild shrub. His pain made him glow and my love made me so. We conducted the clouds as if we were Mozarts of our own realm. We drew tales in the water with our own blood while the swans read them with red pleasure.
What are you afraid of, I asked him. Of losing her again, he told me. But you don’t have her now, I pitched in. But if I did, I’d never want to lose her again. I cringed at the thought of that union. My sighs became little whirlwinds that made the maple trees shed their pristine red autumn’s share of leaves when it was only the earliest of spring.

Danpung-Nori.

They say maple trees constantly looked for something new; somebody new. For once, I hoped that they will make him look. Look for me? I begged my sibling maple spirit.

Maples reminded me of them. Mahua. Mahua, my sisters. I have basked in the glorious wine of their youth in the vain attempt to reach the skies; to reach him. They always told me that it wasn’t my time yet. I wish if I could see them again. And ask. Is it my time?

We floated on the clouds that took us to the heights of spring. The dewy blossoms smiled at us and we, as blossoms of a new world, camouflaged our radiance in a gleeful smile. The bright diamonds giggled as their crystalline shadows were cast on our feathery skin. Sunlight, he said, and smiled sadly.
I had to do it.

I leant towards him and placed a kiss, softly, on one of those reflections and they wavered in coy innocence. A drop of blood started to spread its roots across his otherwise pale face. The redness conquered his beautiful face. And I smiled sadly.

The sadness evaporated as he drew it out of my lips with his. Like a chill being pulled out from your chest through your mouth. A sweet chill. A chill you love.

A star, I own. I laughed in harmony with the laughter in his eyes as I said it.

And a star I made, that no one else can ever have. He said it with a proud, glittering smile.

Those eyes, those eyes! They make my breath vacillate in between my lungs and my throat. And yet, they are mine.

The Wings of Glorious Love swept us away from the clouds and hid us beneath its magnificence. The clouds played symphonies that were never heard before in Life or Death. The Wind passed invitations to watch the royal revelry of our love sealed in these Wings to all that’s ever walked the skies.

And a dew drop fell on to the Earth. And it was green and red and yellow and white. I held out my arms to him. Amidst all the whites that covered us, a red thread of passion, which grew out of my veins, exultingly rushed to meet his veins. And in that moment, we were one. Inseparable. Congruent. Yin and Yang.

The Night and the Dawn conjoined. The Stars in the high Heavens gleamed with pride. The mystery unveiled itself as it happened. The Earth stood in all stillness; in awe.

A new star was born. Born.

©

P

The noiseless memories rattled my mind with a pain I cannot narrate. I was walking back home after a movie. The story of a dancer. A tribute. The pain pierced through my heart to my spine. He was a wonderful dancer, my P. They called him the future. Until the day of his death, he danced like there was no tomorrow or even today. People lived a life or perhaps many lifetimes in his one performance. He was a legend; a modern master, even.

How could he fall in love with me? It was simple: I was an abstract painting that made no sense to him and he always fancied things he never understood. He liked puzzles and the slow unraveling of the mystery. In simple words, he was a man fond of foreplay than the act of sex itself. We were a couple made to tear the bedspreads.
I walked into my studio apartment on the fourth floor and switched on the lights. As always the first thing I saw was the pictures of P all along the wall. Being a professional photographer, I was always proud of my skills. But looking at these pictures, I felt that I couldn’t really capture that elemental thing about P. I don’t know how to put it. What do you call it? Essence? I don’t know.

The darkness emanated a sorrow which voiced my thoughts. I swiftly had a bath and went to bed. Hunger left me the day he left. I usually had a filling lunch and nothing else; no breakfast and no supper. P used to say that I cooked the same way an artist produced a work of art. Licking the food off my finger, he’d tell me that he liked the taste of my hand better than the taste of any food. Now you know what Riyan meant when he said we were made for the jungles.

Initially, I thought he was making fun of me when he said he’d die on the eve of his 29th birthday. I spent the entire month preparing for his birthday. A week before D-day, he fainted whilst rehearsals. I was dead worried and we rushed him into the hospital to face the hard truth: P was suffering from brain tumor, final stage. Even at that point, the only thing he was worried about was his show the next day. And you know what, he did it. And not just that, he danced till his last breath. He died onstage, before his fans; his wish was fulfilled.

It was two weeks after his death, that I started receiving those letters. Somebody sent me letters that told me about P’s life. Things I never knew. At first, me being the eternal romantic, I thought that it was something like P.S. I love you. But no, it wasn’t P. It wasn’t his handwriting, and those weren’t his words. P had a magic language; he’d woo you with his charming speech. The Writer had plain language, like me.

The first letter told me about the first day he saw her: Annabel. Naked. Jealousy shook me like the wind which twirls those dry leaves in the boulevard. It told me about how P by hearted the rhythm of her heartbeats and how he’d dance to it even in the darkness of his bedroom. How come I never had that effect on him?

And I thought I had never felt this jealous of any woman until I got the subsequent letters about Riza, Moira, Ameana, Nimi, Sira, Hiruki and the entire list. Suddenly, I felt so insignificant. But the fourth letter told me about the only girl with whom P wanted to have a baby. That was me. I felt like a volcano, which was confused whether to erupt or not. First of all, I couldn’t believe that P could ever nurture such “typical” thoughts and then again, I couldn’t believe I never thought of this myself.

By the eighth letter, I knew most things about P’s life. But I didn’t have as much interest in knowing P’s life as I had in knowing the Writer. Who could be this jobless to write letters to me? And moreover, who knew so much about P? It couldn’t be his parents, I was sure of that. P’s mom died 4 years ago while his dad was with his sister, in a comatose condition. His sister has a job, 3 crazy kids and a loving husband and P told me that they were never close as kids. P had one best friend, Noah. But he’s in Australia, with his wife and children and probably doesn’t even know that P died. The funniest thing about those letters was the fact that it never had an address. It just had my name. It didn’t even carry any stamps. I asked the postman, but he said that he had no idea, which, I know, is untrue.

Eight months after the death, one day, I tried to follow the postman to find out if someone passes this letter personally to the man instead of posting it. But no, I was wrong; it was indeed posted. This was getting creepier. I lost my sleep and appetite. But one day the letters stopped. I waited, but they never came. And as they never came to my doorsteps, the adventure ceased and P’s memories rushed back to the original spot. I started spending days with those memories of him that I had accumulated over the years. I organized a photo exhibition which showcased pictures of him that I had taken. It was much appreciated by many people, especially P’s fans. Some people tried to boo me my saying things which they thought would hurt me. One of them said that I photographed P during our intimate moments because I knew he was suffering and I’d earn from it some day. I don’t care, I tell you. I knew why I took those pictures. P asked me to. He did. He told me that he’d want to live in those pictures for a long time. He would not break the tie with this earth and Life, as long as he could. Why didn’t I conceive? I kept asking myself. If only I did. His tie with this world would not have broken, in a sense.

All these insanely melodramatic thoughts kept me going. Until the day I received the last letter. Finally, I got to know the Writer. He was another fan of P who got to convince P to help him write a detailed biography, which would be semi-autobiographical as it included stuff written by P too. Things he wrote to Syame, the fan, in the form of letters and which he didn’t want to be edited at all. I got to read a copy of it all. And I almost swooned in mad ecstasy when I read about a day when we had the craziest of adventures. We went on a road trip, on P’s Harley Davidson and we didn’t stop till night. And where did we stop? In a jungle, of course. We slept on the ground and made love like animals. And woke up the next day to find out that we had got so far into the jungle at night, that we were actually lost. So what did we do? No points for guessing. Made love till we embarrassed the skies, and it in return turned red. And we somehow managed to find some sense out of our nonsensical minds and we rode around for 20 minutes before hitting the main roads. When we were with each other, nothing mattered. There was the energy that flowed from me to him and vice versa and nothing other than that.

And tonight, I miss him more than ever. He would have been 30 today. On his 28th birthday, I came back to his life after staying away for a year and a half. We’ve been together since college times. He left photography for dancing. Dance was his passion and he was my Muse. I suffer from lack of inspiration at work, each and every day now. You must sleep, I told myself.

Did I know that I’d never wake up again? Yes, the doze of Seconal that I had before getting into bed was way over the limit. But you know what? P would have loved these sorts of things.

“To your memory, do I write a sonnet?
Or an epic? You say.
I will write a lyric with my love,
Dipped in the ink of my heart.
I bleed with love; and
You stained me with yours.
And now let me stain your death with mine.
Can you see me yet?
I am almost there.
Almost there.
There. “

©

Before You

This was a poem that I had written in 2009. Hope you like it.

 

Before you, my life was an empty canvas,
Where I experimented with colors.
But none appeared on it.
I thought my vision was impaired.
But you taught me,
That the right colors are yet to get splashed on it.

Before you, my life was a tuneless melody,
Where the words ordered themselves in unruly rhymes.
But no magic emerged from it.
But you taught me,
That the right strains are yet to be notated on it.

Before you, my life was an absurd story,
Where the characters bore no meaning at all.
But your love transformed it,
Filled it with melodies, colors and words,
Which knitted the wonderful tale of our love
In colorful threads,
Kneaded with a golden needle
And perfumed with fragrances from paradise.

Before you, life was not Life;
I was not me.
©