I had incentive
you crushed it.
I opened the window,
you cursed me,
draught, you say
all I can see is the bright sky.

I laugh on the phone
a friend called,i blurt.
I watch you weep to me
say things you wouldn't remember;
not for the second minute,
but I would,
for a lifetime.

You drawl,
I'm sick,you say
she caused it, he says.
I wonder at how things came to be,
how a history could be re-written,
how memories could become grotesque,
predicaments, painful, grief.

You judge,
he asserts the opinion.
You analyse,
he depreciates.
You mock,
he jests.
You hurt,
he knifes.
You see right through me,
all he does is see me as her.

And the song plays in my head,
"I'm not calling you a liar,
just don't lie to me".

I read numerous short stories today, all written by Indian writers. As I read them one by one, I was consumed by this fervent rage to read as much as I could, as if I had no more time to live and soon it would be all over and I would not know what all these stories conveyed to people like me all over the world. I gobbled them up one by one, allowing the emotions of each one to them to burn inside of me, surge through my veins, and lead on to reach my head. They seared through me, pulsating blood onto every inch of my body, as if I had been running non-stop for days on end. It felt like I was finally beginning to learn how to breathe again. The words striking the right chords, the images from each story turning back time in my head and with every emotion bouncing off my chest I began to question the real emotions in my life. My past, my present, my experiences, leading me to question everything in my life so far. Soon my head hurt. A volley of memories rolled past me and I cringed at the grinding accusations and the revelations of my soul.

Slowly and surely I lowered myself in the river of my past, floating past every nook and corner, searching for something to hook onto. Searching and manoeuvering myself into each emotion, I soon began to dream. Day dream a story of my own making. A dream intermingled with emotions of my own; with characters and their lives, their fragilities and their nuances, their trysts with love and declarations, and their struggle to come to terms with themselves.

I emerged from the river, still devouring yet calm. Unlike the fervour with which I read all those stories, I somehow didn't feel the need to write this down. The stories that I read, formed spaces in my head and remained there for sometime, floating in and out as they pleased. Yet this one stays with me, festering onto my thoughts and growing by itself, feeding on what I read and forming its own set of emotions, some new or some old. It didn't matter. What mattered was the hope that it filled me with. The hope that this mere dream of mine might someday find itself in pages for someone else to read and fill them with emotions and dreams of their own, just as I have found something of my own from someone else's words.

And so we watch our lives go by, waiting at the bus stop, getting into every bus and
getting out at the next stop. We choose them as they come and leave halfway during the
journey. And in the end we wonder if this is how it is meant to be, where we wait day after
day, in the prickly heat or in the rains, protecting ourselves from the weather, yet
completely open to the world in front of us. We let ourselves go and hope that someday
things might turn out for the good. Would I choose a route that I have been told to take or
would I close my eyes and pick a number, a path, a choice, a way of life. And for all that
these numbers may represent, there can never be an assurance of how life will turn out to be
and whose number would match yours. And so we ask ourselves, would we ever choose our paths
for us to claim it as our lives, or would we let others stake their claim of it? For all we
know, we can never truly guess which road to take and which ones to leave out, with or
without any compromises being made. Yet we trudge on, knowing that hurt and pain and misery
lasts for just as long as we wish it to last, and that being as we are humans, we still
retain our ability to move on and over things, yet however, it still depends on whether it
makes sense to hold onto emotions or not. And that could so much as decide the course one's
life could take, he/she should only give oneself that much thought to know what to keep and
what to throw away. For as they say, at the end of the day, isn't life all about reminiscing
memories of a past life? Then why waste it on misery, and pain when it could be avoided by
just believing in what you see and what makes one happy. Because if living cannot make you
happy why live it; and if not for yourself who are you living it for?

Baby, we laughed all day,
I closed my head around that penny of happiness.
Returned home and dropped it into my empty box.
Collecting pennies as I go,
Minding my own business,
It’s all there is left to do.

The screeching talk numbs my ears,
Her tears fall and I watch unperturbed.
Am I a sinner?
Of what sin do I accuse myself?
I only look down and patiently wait for her to leave,
Mumbling to herself that we will never change.

And so my day begins,
In want of an intoxicant,
To wash away the night’s fear.
And so I search,
Sorting out people one by one,
Hoping to collect more than pennies,
Probably make some money out of it,
Afterall isn’t money all about happiness?

A book for everyday
to drive away those pangs of sadness
that creeps up on a low dull Tuesday afternoon.

Warm memories
glowing like the sun
to fill in those lonely sundays
while drinking your hot cup of steaming tea.

Roads strewn with autumn leaves in sepia
Reebok shoes lightly stepping on the pavement
as he walks away.

Wilderness in the middle of the city
lost with trees all around
as your mind picks its fancy.

Watch as your hair flies in the wind
jauntily twisting in and out of his reach
chuckling to yourself
suddenly proud of your unruly tresses.

Rain
on a warm bright Sunday
Nature has its own crazy games.
The sun streaks in and around clouds
keeping to its majestic posture
unsettled my impish clouds
that grin in a delightful chorus.

And all of a sudden
a metaphorical object
seems lame,
truer to its original state
And we just laugh at how selfish we are,
to make something mean more than it ever could.

Happiness can be anything,
watching dead leaves flicker in stagnant water,
street dogs chase each other in the sunlight,
fill your thoughts with images you saw from a movie when you were 5
watch your huge coffee as the sugar slowly sinks in through the froth
walk along cobbled streets,
grinning at the anonymity of the place.

Why do my eyes feel like I've just cried,
Why am I so tired,
Why do I value my sleep so much,
Why do I wait for that phone call?

I don't mull like I used to.
Trapping myself,
and bundling until i trip and stumble over the boxes.
No.

It's
a grotesque happiness.
Beautifully distorted,
Set as images,
that you can click from your desktop.

Yet,
on the sullen side,
there's a normal craving
to receive what I expect.
But it doesn't numb me anymore,
not anymore.

I can’t cross shores.
My system deflates,
At every disappointment.

Selfish crab.
Snapping away at everything around you,
Clawing your way into people’s lives.
When you catch something,
You hold on and can never let go.
Your shape,
Grotesque as your thoughts.

Soft muzzle,
Too soft, too fragile, too sincere,
Contrasts your fake exterior.

This I am to everyone.
I drive you away,
With my touch, a pinch.
I drive you,
My shell is not what I want to be.

I live without pretension now,
Yet afraid my every step will hurt.
But the tide is too strong,
I can’t help being muddled up,
Forgive my sins, unintentional.

I can’t help but survive,
Searching ashore for my kind,
They surface once in a while,
Yet get washed away.

The breeze against my face,
I watch this struggling crab,
If only it had a voice.