Fire + Paper

i still remember
the way your tongue
mapped my mouth

and searched the contours
of my body
filling crevices
of my broken self

trying
to make me whole again.

i remember
how we so easily
fell into each other
entangling ourselves
weaving our present

to make a past

like a photograph.

and i remember
how you told me:
we were too alike
too volatile
too much--
in ourselves

so when we were together
i was fire
and you, paper

and we burned--
both of us,
consuming each other
hungrily.
uninhibitedly.

and now i lie
in the ashes of your memory
in the catastrophe we created
in the masterpiece we created
like two artists full of soul

on a rampage

the funny thing about memory is
it’s not ephemeral

like the ashes that crumble in my fingers
darkening the tips of my fingers
that try to trace the contours of my body

like you once did. 

{love, heartache, poem, writing, remembering, memory}

With love

Dear R,

You asked me to describe how I felt when I saw the Arabian Sea for the first time at Marine Drive.

It was like falling in love.

Like the time when your heart begins to pace at a speed you imagine never existed. When you cannot peel your eyes away because you are taken by the beauty that lies in front of you. It was that vastness, that sprawling empire of blue which made me realize that I was nothing but a tiny speck in the entire cosmos. 

I remember being mesmerized by her as my car drove past. I hoisted my chin on the window to see miles of blue go on and on with a determined endeavour never to end. Arching my back, I had leaned forward, stretching the view of my eyes ever so much so to see that thin line of indigo where the two magnificent halves met. The driver was in a hurry that day; I remember the wind slapping against my cheek, my hair unfurling and lashing, and my desperate attempts to discipline my billowing shirt. 

I had gestured the driver to pull up on the side, for I wanted to meet this majestic beauty. On the concrete boulevard that necklaced her, I found a spot and settled there. And I remained there, fascinated by the fearlessness with which the water broke against the rocks, by the salty froth that threatened to, and did, drench the by-standers and, by the crabs, smooth black capsules crawling across the sun-seared boulders. And all I could think of at that moment was my fierce wish to be accepted in the institution I had come to Bombay for. 

For I had fallen in love with the city, and Marine Drive was fated to be my anchor. 

{memories, remembering, letters, love}
Photography: Raj Lalwani

Unmade

In unmade beds we lie unmade
naked, sweaty palmed
wet eyed with wet insides
lying across the wrinkled sheets

moments ago
you had dug your fingernails
altering the lines my palm contained
becoming the cartographer of my world

outside
the owls hooted and spied wide-eyed
inside
I feel into your arms and you slipped
into mine

I gave you my world in kisses and rhyme
and you gave me
memories--

memories
that lie on my bed
like torn out pages

crumpled, abandoned, silent,
unfinished

{love, stories, heartaches, scribbles, remembering}

Notes from a Diary

Sometimes we sleep open-eyed, thinking of what is to come, or what may have been. Sometimes we listen to the words of a poet and fall in love with him unknowingly--not because of who he is, but what he thinks. Sometimes we fall like torn out pages from a book of an unforgiving author. And we lie on the ground, crumpled, abandoned, silent, yet unfinished. Sometimes, we build our worlds around the past and live in the moments that have gone by, loving lovers who are now ghosts. And when we have finally assembled our memories and tied them neatly in a bow, when we have mustered the courage to become citizens of the present--we realize that we've become too old to fall in love again.

Uninvited

After months you visit me again. You had disappeared, I thought. I had torn our memories and flung them in a corner, where they could no longer break me. Alas, you arise like a ghost...I see you walking in my arms across the street, as I wait at a signal in my car. I see you sprawled on my bed, when I reach home. I see you in the face of every stranger who walks by. I see you sitting at our favourite table in a café we frequented.

***

Love is a glamorous affair. How we love to prick our heart and drown in self-designed misery. How we foolishly relish every moment built by time, reliving certain situations over and over again. We become broken records. Un-repairable. Un-amendable. And we continue to play ourselves out, even though the tune may not be right anymore. We become an album of imperfect, cacophonous images, faded by time.

{heartaches, longing, love stories, memory, remembering, thoughts}