Things I Do

Things I do

I like possibilities

collapsing the space 

and time

between us

I like to imagine

umm, let's say

what if we had met on 

3rd August 2013

you arriving at 11:00 

and I ten minutes later?

would you have preferred 

reading Bolano to me 

then?

Or named me Fusun 

for my strange desire

of being renamed?

I like imagining different times

different places

as if they exist

as if they don't exist

'what if' is like my 

favorite thing

however, not the big things

just the small ones

Like would you have 

preferred having waffles with me

and thinking about

strange brimming coffee cups

that Ezekiel drank in Iranian Coffee shops?

Or would you have 

slept earlier 

every night

in anticipation 

that you might hear from me

sooner

or even later? 

these imaginations

or my graphic images

do not lead to another

they remain as it is

exactly how they would 

have felt

if they at all, would have happened.

For what could have been imagined

was perhaps never imagined

by either of us

and I undo 

all these possibilities

at one go.

Two Lives and An Equal Music

Which one did you get by him? 

Two Lives. 

And you? 

An Equal Music. 

Even Italo Calvino would have changed the plot of If on a Winters Night a Traveler- our titles fit in so well as we stood in that queue some five years back. So did our subtitles- Maithili. Not that it mattered so much. We did not know then. We did not even know that we will be screened in the same wedding hall after five years. All we knew was our love for literature, our joy of listening to music was perhaps in the same book, if not on the same page. 

After three long years, a good time-as I did not even believe in stories- he came as a cynical surprise. I started thinking so much about meeting him after so long, phone calls had made it better though. Had I been the Baroda girl that I was at some point, this would have been simple- butterflies in my stomach and getting ready. As stories pass by, refrains take over. Refrains in how they will end, how they will begin. Stories that carry you, stories that have carried your friends. I did not want an end and as much as that, I did not want a beginning. 

One hates how complex one becomes. We have forgotten to be simple. To carry those butterflies without worrying. To imagine further and further- to spiral in each each other. So biased that I was. I picked up the most rugged looking kurta from my closet. If he likes me in my worst, he can possibly fall in love. Sometimes, it is too bad to fall in cliches we read everywhere and since we are frail hearted, we look for these pessimistic statements to affirm. Even if their contexts would have been different. Pick worse time- when I am sick. If he likes me my coughing throat, he would like me. Make it seem like you have other work to do as well. You are not meeting him specially. 

With all this, I knew he would not want to meet me again. And I could keep affirming my sadist beliefs that the world does not have that spark anymore. But then again, somewhere I did want to meet him, again and again. 

He showed up with a letter. And Roberto Bolano. Is he lying? He says time stops with me and that he has been always waiting for me. Oh really, why didn't this happen before? He does not say anything. Sometimes, now that I know, waiting happens without promises, without expressions. But that wait brings you closer. Wait for a phone call, wait for a letter, wait for a guest to show up suddenly. But that waiting is different than anticipation. We have learnt to anticipate- an outcome. A result that is either positive or negative. Does he love me, does he not? Will I win, will I lose? And we also want to get a contemplated time- how long does it take it to grade an exam? Two weeks? I should have got my marks by now. How long does it take for one to think, buy a nice gift for me? The market is two kilometres, so by that estimate it shouldn't take him more than an hour to do this. In anticipation, we measure. In waiting, there are no measurements. Things may happen, things may not. Let life continue. Your letter may have reached your favorite school teacher, she might have not read it. She might be traveling somewhere. Or she might be struggling. After a long gap, you go to her town to meet some friend and get to know she's no more. But you see that letter on her desk. Or you go and find out, she was happy to receive your letter but did not want to reply. So what. You meet her, hug her and get back to your life that you had been living. 

He taught me that- waiting. 

As I was meeting a friend, he kept waiting outside the cafe. I did not think he would. I could have taken long, he didn't care. He waited. I heard the butterflies in my stomach as I sipped in the coffee. Discussion was important, I kept nodding to my friend. My eyes fluttered and were flattered by that Kurta clad tall guy moving around the cafe. I came out and sang in my heart. I had forgotten singing. To sing for someone when in love. 

Next day, I was hoping to find something nice to wear. And I assured myself, you are not doing it for him. Wore Kajal and my favorite perfume. Is this happening? I did not know what all I was going through. I decided not to dream. Just walk into a dream and if I am lucky, I would be let inside. To see, even if a little- of that beautiful dream. He did look at me, a lot of times. It felt great. Before I know, we were walking on streets, hand in hand, laughing, going to random places. As I was headed back home, a lady with a bunch of roses asked me if I would buy a rose and that if I did, god would fulfill my wishes and that I would find a great husband. Earlier, I might have bought, but also would have told the lady, I don't want a husband. Life is so beautiful alone. But this time, I bought four- secretly hoping that love would come to me in whatever form. I didn't care so much.

I made sure to tell him, it's not what you're thinking. I am not interested. He smiled. Laughing off my pessimism and letting me just be. If not in love, then around love. With each day, I was moving. My head on his shoulder for the first time, that faith. Then suddenly realizing and lifting head up. Uttering, "by mistake, not what you think, okay?" He smiled, passing me on his butterflies. Lighting me up. With each month, I was waiting, looking at myself in the mirror - he said he loves my hair- kept adjusting it again and again. He said he loves the way I hold glasses, looking at my smallest gestures and falling in love. Writing love letters, writing papers. I did everything- laid those butterflies jumping in my room. Slept with dreams. 

And before I realize, we're married. 

Each day I am learning to wait, more and more. 

I will open this door if you finish one chapter- and he still opens and gives me a peck as I write. There's no end to the waiting, life goes on as we wait to live every next moment. 

This is us~

Humming an equal music every day. Writing this as I wait for him to come and brighten the room with his laughter and glittering eyes. 

The New Normative of the Everyday

                                                          The Setting

It has been a dreadful day, he thought to himself. Going to institutions has always made him nervous- even if that be constituted of two people- a group of friends who decide to come up with a plan to put up posters. Why is it so difficult to get something done? 

With a frowning forehead, he ripped off posters from his walls. Screw you! Literature and the theories. Oh yes, now you would say, Kafka had foreseen the various gates, visible/non -visible in bureaucracy. And there's that peach background poster with Duras grinning in pain, "Too early in life I was too late." 

Why was I born late? I mean not physically, but in the world? Or have I been always late? In providing documents and getting them signed on time just to get my bizarre looking No Objection Certificate.. But in this one bedroom kitchen house where I clean my own shit, cook my own food and pass on a narcissistic smile to clean looking faucets and aesthetically appeasing gourmet cooking, Do I go and cry out in frustration in my bathroom? May be bathroom is the new outside of my inside. Well, that's what everyone does. Crying alone, laughing together. 

He turns on the geyser and goes out to make some cold coffee. We don't know if he cried inside the bathroom. He likes to make cold coffee in five minutes, then gulping it down in five minutes. The next is taking off his clothes and arranging them neatly in the laundry basket. Then rushing to the clothesline and getting towels ready for shower. Ah, and it's twenty minutes- hot water is ready. He likes utilizing the exact twenty minutes in making the coffee and preparing for the shower. I guess only he knows about this perfect arrangement with his geyser and the coffee. Sometimes, he takes about seven minutes to gulp down his coffee- he had heard on one of the TV shows that it is important to enjoy every sip of your coffee, life is short, enjoy every moment, watch out for your breath, take it slow, take it easy.  And then you will have no stress."Just the coffee? well I could do that." He made it into a ritual- being conscious of the formation of this habit. Sip it and 'be grateful' to life. 

It's not like I go around sticking posters like- "Life is short, be happy. Happiness depends on you and not on others." Screw you, optimists! Heiddeger today. No, for sure Althusser. I should go on to speak and write about institutions and interpellations. Gone are the days when only "Hey you" meant my being, now even not calling someone means that the person is called. I am so interpellated that I feel I am being called even when I am not. So definitely Althusser.

It feels great when hot water falls on your back, especially when you are squatting in an awkward way. That way, the water falls on your back and then drizzles away to your bums. It's a great feeling. Thank god people no longer bathe with each other, otherwise it would have been difficult to squat like this. He thought about it while making a quick glance at the closed bathroom glass door. 

The water from his body shouldn't drip anywhere else, cleaning the house again is tedious. Sometimes it gets to me. This organized stuff. And the organization itself. But it's definitely much better than multiple organizations running around together in a house- parents, spouse, children and then different ways of living. The plastic bottle should not be kept on the left side of the fridge. Oh who gets so fussy? Apparently his friend's wife does.There is a whole theory behind her logic. Talk about theories. Arrgh. It's not for nothing that living alone in a private apartment is glorified. Blame it or Credit it on the French. They always come up with cool ideas- creating those nunneries for reaching out to god, everything is self- the conversation with the self and a dialogue with a god. Heaven is not too far away. And it's much closer nowadays because you can live alone, have multiple dialogues on phone, come back to solitude and reach salvation. Nothing is inhibited. Nothing is barred. 

Should I call her? May be not. She'll be really put off by my conversation regarding how I hated the office today. I can't expect her to listen to my nonsense or even sad stories. Love is not the space for frustrations. Also, it has been only about six months with her. May be she's not ready yet. We have to cross that stage where I could propose an arrangement that she should come to see me every weekend. And chuck her engagements at the meetings, I mean I know I bluffed about possessiveness. But I do feel possessive, it'll however be too lame to disclose it to her. She's probably going to hate it and not see me again. In fact, last time I wanted to lie in her lap and ask her to stroke my hair. But right before that, we had a glass of beer and we discussed about Oedipus. We definitely moved out of Sophocles to contemporary times but this urge. Oh man. I think there must be something, like you know being mothered, don't women feel that? Being lifted up in the arms and put to bed. Just being loved like a child- being so vulnerable. 

I shouldn't probably think about it, it's a bad urge. Making women into these objects of desire who would feed me and all that. I am definitely out of it, at least enlightened about that- I am pissed at the thought of being patriarchal. I really want to give her, her own space. And get out of these constructs of partners. Who should do what. 

So definitely not her. May be I should 'reach out' to someone. I could look up an old friend and call him/her up. My handwriting in the diary is not so bad. I don't know why I have kept this diary for recording numbers and addresses. People call me old school. What is this old school and new school about. So a friend told me, if a guy holds the door open for his lady, it's old school. I am contrasting it not with a guy who does not hold the door, but rather takes the lady to a mall where either the doors are sensory and open themselves or a guard holds it for both of them. I mean come on, it's not like people don't care in the new school. They care in a different way. I got her a foot massager so that she can come back from the office and feel relaxed. I care about her feet. Sometimes, she would scratch it on mine and wink, I like it a lot. I want to do that to her, but restrict myself because I do not want to come across as being aggressive. I really want to give her some space and protection from that masculine aggressive world out there. 

This one? No, he's an MBA. Definitely not him. He would not understand my pain, he probably does not even care for these documents. He would give me numbers and emails of others who would take some money and get things done for me. Ten years back, we did not have 'document management' like 'event management'. But this some money is going to be so much. And that, "Hey buddy, let's meet up over a glass of beer, I will tell you stories about my family vacations in Bali." Aaargghh. Who does that? That reminds me, I must save some money to be able to go that conference and write an abstract for it.

Ummmm, may be this one. He is in the bank. Perhaps he knows what it means to watch institutions. But he can only give me solace. I don't want that. He's always been so boring and repetitive. This one? No. He's in the Army, I know what his response is going to be like, even after ten years- "Suck it up dude! You still cannot give back shit to people who give you shit? Listen, the world is not nice and you have to fight. But you have to have your dignity." 

May be him, he will understand my pain because he too chose this world of books and writing. He knows what it means to live in this banal world. It's been long though, I don't know what he's upto. May be I could google him. 

                      

                                                                 The Find

It is exceptional that I have found him, he knows exactly what I am going through. And being from the same gender, it's not necessary all the time to fake things. Talk about these categories, gender and all. And it's been a month with him and I absolutely love it. Sometimes, we talk about the academia, sometimes about the violent outside and then sometimes about how life is going to end. In fact, in the week that I met him, I forgot that I had so much trouble regarding the certificate.

Making himself a tea, he told me, I am so glad you called that evening. In fact, I was going to tell you that these places suck. Look at my own life, I mean half of it is spent in trying to make a fucking pan card. And then half of my life trying to figure out how to pay the taxes. I mean what the fuck is this! He said this, neatly dipping the tea bag in a rhythmic pattern then without a 'cruck' noise, he softly lifted the flap of trash can and threw away the tea bag. I like that about him, respecting my space. I guess he knows what it means to live alone in a place and make your own life neat. Whenever I go to his place, it is absolutely great- lined up cans, neatly folded bedsheets. He tells me, I have to make a little more money to get the maids and househelp but otherwise life's great! It's brilliant when I have my space to read. I always wanted that. Think about Nietzsche, do you think he could have written so much without those solitary walks for hours? No. And that language guy, ah I forget. wait, it'll come to me....Oh, the one who wrote about language games.. Russell's student..Yes! Wittegenstein. I mean solitude is underrated, especially for people like us. And that's why I understand you. 

Long ago in college, I had started admiring his ways. He was never up an about protests and marches. And was quiet in his own way, was charming though. One day, a friend of mine dating this girl went to him for some relationship advice. He was stunned when my friend said I don't know I think she wants to marry me, but I am just not ready.. I don't know what to do. He looked at him and lifting his packet full of cigarettes and smirked, "run my friend, run. You don't want to be caught up in these routines. Life is full of wonderful opportunities. She's probably going to ditch you if you tell her this. But hey, life is much more than that." I don't know what happened with my friend after that. He definitely loved her but was not sure about himself. Those days, we had started this search of the self. It continues even now. And then this lacan, freud. juxtaposing other/self etc. So the other was this lady who wanted to get married. Ah. Isn't that sorted enough that categories are so concrete. There were never others, just other. Anything different, just push it under the 'other'. 

And talk about people. they call us complex. booh.

That day, he just decided to come over my place for a beer when I just wanted to rant. It is brilliant that he's had most of the experiences and he can advise over anything. Like, hey I get this tired feeling, and he's like oh, probably you're out of b12. go and grab some. It's like this problem solver. And he never asks too much. One time, he looked at the poem she'd written and he's like, oh you guys have just started, right? I mean enjoy, it's not going to last very long. Everyone gets this honeymoon phase. But the best part is, if you are not committed, you can get it all the time and it does not hurt anyone. I mean come on, she's a woman so she doesn't have desires? She would. And it's great you respect that. 

                                                          The Loss

It's much worse to lose a friend than a lover. You are never too close, yet never too far. I don't know what happened to him. But we drifted apart, I hate saying it this way- it's so neoliberal kind of a thing. But may be not. Anyway, I think it has been great being with him for whatsoever time. I could sense it coming, but thought may be we are two mature beings so it wouldn't go that bad. I mean it's not like we fought and cut each other off.. but it's much worse. He's cut me off and ignores my messages and calls. 

I think it started that evening. We were lying down on the bed, high and drunk,  and I said, I was never sure about life, I mean I did not know it would turn this way. 

He looked at my eyes, and as if, asking for some sadness, he asked, what way? 

But I did not have sadness. So I told him, the certificate has been issued, the abstract has been accepted but above all, something beautiful has happened.. I think she...

Oh please, don't get hopeful for god's sake! He didn't let me complete. He smirked and said, you'll see a different problem with the certificate, just wait for some time. And that abstract, I mean who goes to these narcissistic conferences.. worst, please for heaven's sake, do not fall in love. It's going to change you and drag you to that mundane everyday. One day I will see you saving up for all the EMIs you'll have to pay for. Those parasitic children , they'll leave you or demand IPADs. Can't you see what this capitalistic world is dragging us into? 

I sat up and decided to calm him down. May be he's feeling a bit possessive. That these evenings, these night outs without a care would stop. I told him, listen, you don't have to react like that. You meet her, she's a great woman. I mean right now, it's only like we have decided to be in the same city and then we don't know if things are going to go further. I mean she has her life. It's never going to be that conventional. Do I look like that kind of a person? I mean she's decided to say no to a job she's got as a reporter in Syria, I am not sure if she really wanted it in the first place. But I had tried to listen to her excitement about the job and I couldn't. But I had to be this nice man and just take it in. But I really wanted her to stay. So it's nice she did it on her own. 

There you go. You're falling in love, she's quit something for you and now you'll feel guilty. Or she'll make you feel guilty. And then, who will take care of who drama. Trust me, I know where this is going. She'll gradually move in and then the clothes in place, sorry, her place. She'll assign everything. Women are like that. 

But not all women, eh? 

All women. I tell you. And then men, I don't know what happens to them. 

How can you judge all? She's just not like that. 

Well, I have got to leave. Call me up whenever it doesn't work out with her. Or if things go wrong. right now, you're too happy to talk to me.

    

                                                                  ***

It's been quite some time. I haven't been able to call him over some sadness. Happiness, yes, I missed him.. But he doesn't respond to those calls. May be I guess I'll wait.

A Day in the Life of a Shopkeeper in Chauta Bazaar

It is night.
Almost 10 PM.
The day starts at night here, may be sometimes, depends. Not for everyone I guess.
He picks up the numerous plastic covers from the street and clears the patch right in front of his shop. There are some paper pamphlets as well, some regarding discounts, some regarding new shops being inaugurated in the newly constructed small shopping arcades in Chauta. He jumbles them up in a ball by squeezing his fist and starts rubbing that ball on the contours of his shop. The rust colored wall of the shop and the grey tiles do not show any color changes after this. May be they do. The night is blurring the subtle differences. Shops should be such, differences that are not visible, at least to people who want to see. Like me, perhaps.


He throws that paper ball back on the ground. But somewhere else. I could not figure out. I think he did it purposely. But not keeping me in mind, because I am not visible to him. Perhaps he assumes he is visible, or his actions are visible to everyone. His trousers are torn from the edges because he never wears his rough Bata shoes nicely. His feet are half inside and half pressing the wrinkled canvas shoes from the arches. The trousers linger and touch the road. I have never seen him tie the laces of his shoes. Shoes that are always kept outside his shop, right below a small notice board written in Gujarati that says, "Keep your shoes outside".

He kick starts his gearless scooter and swings the accelerator. I know his house, it is right next to Limda Chowk, not too far away, about 300 meters, I guess. I cannot follow him now because I do not have a vehicle. Moreover, he will be freaked out. He will think I know about his stamp paper illegal business.That he gets black money through that. Unless he has a commodity, he does not like being followed. I have tried that, trust me. And even if they have a commodity, it is likely they would want to know that you know they have it. Like the stamp paper of the year 1932. I know he has it. But he knows that I don't want it. Rather, I would never need it (according to him). So please don't expect me to follow him and tell you that he did not go to his house directly. That he took a left turn instead of right to go buy Pau Bhaji for dinner at his house. No, I did not hear the heated conversation between him and his wife, when she shouted that he has nothing to do, sitting all day, selling nothing, or making meager amounts every day. That she told him she would not cook, as she would be wrapping laces all day to get some money. And that she is doing the actual work, something that is so manual. So she deserves food. At least cooked food.

Anyway, I don't know anything about that. At least pretend so.

So I am not going to take you to Limda Chowk where he stays, or where his joint family of 34 members stay. And not going to tell you that the house does not have divisions.
Ah, may be I can tell you about this one. Well, the houses in this area, or even the inner city area of Surat, are mostly Gala type houses (not all). These are narrow houses that stretch long, mostly like 10 feet to let us say 30 feet. The ground floors are such so as to accommodate Zari/powerloom machines. And there are no divisions. Dinners are cooked right next. Children sleep right next. Right next to these machines. The sounds blur many sounds. But there are no divisions. Sleep anywhere. Eat anywhere and Work anywhere. If there is no privacy, then I don't feel uncomfortable telling you about that. So that is why I told you. No more prying from now.

We are still outside his house. I can only tell you, there are noises. There are noises of the pressure cooker whistles to the machine work going on. And there are noises of silent envy of those who had to use the pressure cooker and those who would be eating the Pav Bhaji. During the day, it was other way round. Those who rolled laces on their tired thighs were envious of those who sat outside doing nothing. Joint family has their own subsets. Living together has different conceptions.

Noises and no noises. And may be they have slept amidst this.

Morning! It is 6 AM. and we wake up with the long footsteps on the distanced wooden staircases. The house wakes up. The only two toilets, receive a queue. But the preferences are first who will go out during the day. He gets it. And he rushes from toilets to tea to the torn trousers. And amidst all this, three chimes of small bells close to a common altar place in the house. It is so swift, I cannot even understand when. Was it after the tea? Or may be after shower. Don't know, I am sleepy during mornings.

He rushes. He doesn't, but I look at my watch. It is 8:30 AM. He doesn't need a watch, may be. He places his tiffin close to his feet on the vehicle. As if the feet clasp the circular boxes and hold them tight. Again the swirl on the accelerator, with a kick start and I run too. In this sleepy mode. Oh come on. We can now stalk him. Light has so much of trust. Light brings customers who know only about the visible. We can be one of them, Don't worry.

He takes water from Surat General Hospital, like three bottles, of one liter each. And throws one liter on the patch outside his shop. Surat is known for its dust. And the way the city covers everything with dust. Pushes his half worn shoes outside his shop, close to the edges.
He does a cleaning of the contours of his shop with a cloth patch tied on a thick wooden grip. And sits peacefully near  small photographs of god placed close to his money keeping area. He lights incense sticks, rolls the fragrance all over. I can locate each movement, so carefully done. Opens a small box of yellowish-orange sandalwood paste and make a U on his temple. Everyone around is almost busy making different symbols, in their own shops. A choreographed morning it seems!

He sits, looks outside.

And to every passerby, he simply says, "Bolo" (Say), hardly anyone responds. I had asked him earlier, why do you keep saying that! He had told me, bole tena bor vechaay (The one who speaks, gets his berries sold). So if I ask everyone, perhaps someone would come. My job is to speak. and to keep Speaking. 

Negotiations have strange terrain. Or speeches and the sounds.

It is almost 1 PM. An old man walks by, stops. Looks at the stacks and asks for a towel. He shows him seventeen towels, throws all of them on ground for better visibility. The old man picks up one and asks for its price. He tells him two prices. - "This is for 100, but for you, I will make it 80" The old man is not impressed with 'for you'. I think the old man wants to test this, and so he's asked it for 50. He refuses. There's no haggling. And nothing happens. The old man walks away without buying anything. He stacks the towels back. Cursing. Not the old man. But cursing the old man's community. I don't know how he knows that the old man is a Ghanchi. Last time, I remember, he simply refused to show anything to a middle aged muscular man. When I had asked him why, he'd told me, "I do not want to even engage with Khandesis. They will ravage this shop if something does not work out."  Even today, he couldn't explain it to me, or I couldn't understand how he figured our that the other man was a Khandesi. Finding out who belongs where is a strange exercise, I guess. At least I am not good at it when I have only bodies to observe for that test.

Almost 2 PM.

He takes a long and thin towel. Places it like a veil. I can see the tiffin box disappearing. I think he is eating. Once he had told me, one should never eat under the sky or in public spaces just like that. Eating should be veiled. So we don't know what he is eating. After fifteen minutes, the veil is removed and he washes his hands right outside his shop. And we see him seated again. But now, with his legs stretched.

Oh, I think he's half asleep. Waking up whenever he hears footsteps. I think he likes afternoon naps. Who doesn't! But he wakes up, and again says, "Bolo" to the crowd outside.

5 PM.

Shiraz, the tea seller comes to his shop. There are other 3 people inside as well. Not to buy or sell, I guess. Or to buy or sell something I don't know about. Or may be we shouldn't know about. He buys 2 cups of tea. And takes out other two small plastic cups and divides the tea among all four of them. He throws the cups on the road after everyone has had theirs. The road looks littered. And the packets, tea cups are crunched under the feet of so many people. And again, so many pamphlets. He looks at one of them and laughs, hysterically. Like a crazy man. "50000 Rs and you own a shop! Hah! 50000, look at the times! anyone. anyone can become a shopkeeper. There were times people never bought commercial places outside bazaars like these. They would spit at the thought of the textile market. Should we sell where the pigs eat rotten stuff? Where there is a dirty moat? Where there are prostitutes and pimps? No way. We will earn just enough to survive but never stoop so low." He laughs hysterically again and there is a lament in the roar. There is a pity in the eyes of rusted walls. He keeps that pamphlet safely in a box. And says, "It was 1980's that people had ethics. Where to buy. Where to sell. Now, everything is a market. Everywhere is a market."

The evening passes by. Again a call from his wife, I am guessing.. The conversation looks intimate, yet interrogative. The long nail on his last finger is scratching the sticker of the wooden case for money. And his eyes are scratching the unsold stacks of towels and lungis.

And again, the left turn before the day ends. Or when the day starts.

Carving a Poem

Carving a Poem

I rolled up some words
gently carved the eyes
raising the arched eyebrows
twitched those flat words
and the nose there..

From a deep navel,
I raised a deep voice
traversing lungs
and some melting words
labial, palatal
no retroflexes...

Carved eight mudras
those five elements
in the joints
of slender fingers
spread some green
from the dreams
for those nerves

Some genetic memories
I relieved myself
of the dancer's legs
and patted the calves
of my poem

It also took my
high arched soles
I polished the clay
of strong imageries
and placed those words
in a rhythm
of my toes and fingers

Look, how my poem
dances, carved in a
language.

Tiering

Those salty drops

walking in a hurry

to the contours of face..

eyes could be a prison

those translucent beings

incriminating goosebumps

on a faraway land 

of hand

the trail is a distance

in time

strands of hair 

get stuck with them

right where the tip 

of the eyebrow ends

they spread to the ears

with those strands

like a flood

with no water

the corner of lips

stretched this moment

catch them in time

right when they fall

from cheekbones

Ah, the forehead looks plain

it's perhaps happiness

because the frowns 

never shy away from 

being witnesses 

to these 

small little salty

prisoners. 

Inscription

I write about you
the most mundane
and ordinary ways

-on that chocolate wrapper
that speaks of possessiveness
"mine, also mine"

-on the mirror
that looks opaque
with the steam of hot water

-on clay near the pavement
I remove my shoes
and write with my right toe

-on the last pages
of my notebook
I just scribble

-in the dust
that gathers around
desks and tables

I write.
knowingly, unknowingly

the most mundane
and ordinary

are perhaps the ones
that stay.

नंगे पैर

नंगे पैर

किसी नए शहर में चलना शायद कौतुहल को ढूँढने जैसा होता है. सड़कें लम्बी लगने लगती हैं, मगर चौड़ी नहीं. कई लोगों से टकराना होता है, कई दुकानों की खिड़कियां हथेलियों से छूती हैं. मैं हमेशा इसी तरह एक शहर देखती हूँ. दिशाओं को याद रखना मुश्किल लगता है, तो लोगों के चहरे, विज्ञापन से भरी हुई इमारतें, कुछ पेड़- आड़े, तिरछे, ये सब मेरे दिशासूचक बन जाते हैं. प्राग में मेरा यह दूसरा दिन था. पहले दिन जूतों से पैर छिल गए थे, लेकिन आज आराम करने का मन ही कहाँ। लगता है की जैसे समेट लूँ, चल कर सारे शहर को.

अपने वही जूते निकाले मैंने, और साथ में एक बैग. हालांकि ज़्यादा कुछ रखने को नहीं मेरे पास, मगर बैग को टाँगे बिना अनमना सा लगता है. अजीब है, चीज़ें भी अंग के मुकाबले हो जाती हैं. बाहर मौसम कुछ ठंडा सा है, तो एक ओवरकोट भी. निकलते ही एक लड़का दिखाई देता है, वह एक बड़े से काले बोर्ड पे मेनू लिख रहा है. उसे दिखाई दे रहा है की मैं अपने पैर को थोड़ा धीरे से संभल कर रख रही हूँ. अब फिर से दर्द होने लगा था, मैंने उसीके सामने फीते खोले और हाथ में जूतों को टान लिया. उसने अंगूठा सहमति में दिखाया।  बस, इसी गली के बाहर से मुझे चार्ल्स ब्रिज की और जाना है. तलवों में थोड़ी सी ठण्ड तो लगती है, लेकिन सड़कों से बात-चीत भी होती है. बसों के निशान जैसे कुछ भाग में मेरे हिस्से बँट गयी हो. इस शहर में कागज़ बहुत हैं शायद, हर पग पर किसी कागज़ का सिरा मेरे नंगे पैरों से टकराता है। एक दो बार उठा कर भी देखा, ज़्यादातर म्युज़ीयम्स के, कुछ ओर्केस्ट्रा के, तो कुछ कार्निवल के. पैर नीचे से काले से हो गए हैं, नहीं शायद मैल नहीं। भला शहरों का भी मैल हुआ करता है क्या!

चार्ल्स ब्रिज पर आज बहुत भीड़ है, इस ब्रिज पर हर थोड़े दूर में एक स्तम्भ और मूर्ति है, मगर यहाँ मेरे पैरों में खुरदुरे रास्ते की चुभन होती है. मगर ये नदी इतनी सुन्दर से कि मन नहीं करता आगे बढ़ने को. कई बार हम शायद दर्द को तौलते हैं, कई बार हम न चाहकर भी अपनी दर्द, ख़ुशी को तवज्जो देते हैं. फैसले ऐसे ही होते होंगे, छोटे, बड़े. और पैरों की चुभन को तो बर्दाश्त किया ही जाना चाहिए. आगे बहुत आवाज आ रही है. एक बाग़ है, जहाँ काफी लोग जमा हैं. हर कोई नारंगी रंग के फूलों की माला पहन के जा रहा है. वहां एक लड़की जोर से गाने लगाकर सबको डांस सीखा रही है. यहीं आ गयी हुँ. मैंने भी पुछा, क्या मैं कर सकती हूँ? उस ने बड़े से मुस्कान के साथ कहा, हाँ! यहाँ तो घास है, मुलायम घास को महसूस करना शायद कुछ बेहतरीन चीज़ों में से एक है. जोर से पैर पटकने पर, नीचे की ज़मीन भी स्पर्श होती है. ऐसा नहीं है की इसकी वजह से मैं आगे घास के बारे में न सोचुं. कई बार कुछ चीज़ें दर्द देती हैं, मगर वो दुःख नहीं देतीं। भेद है इन दोनों में.

शाम को पैरों में कांच की चुभन, कुछ लोग इतने खुश हैं यहाँ की उन्होंने बोतलें यूँ ही फ़ेंक दी हैं. लेकिन उनके इतने छोटे टुकड़े हैं कि पैरों में वो बस हलके से चुभते हैं, उनके होते हुए भी मैं चल पाती हूँ. कई बार सिर्फ ध्यान देने पर कांच दिखाई देते हैं, कई बार बस महसूस होते हैं. मगर सफर रुकता नहीं। जिन्होंने ये बोतलें फेंकी हैं, उन में से कुछ लड़के-लड़कियां हाथ थामे हैं, जैसे फेंकना गुनाह नहीं था, वैसे इस तरह भरी सड़क में खड़े रहना भी गुनाह नहीं हुआ । आज़ादी हर उस छोटे से अवकाश में होती है, जब आप कुछ और भी कर सकते थे.

रात की सड़क, होटल की सीढियाँ, कुछ बिखरे पत्ते और वो कमरा। यहीं मेरे नंगे पैर थक के चूर हुए, और मुझसे दूर कहीं सो गये.

Cartography

To my left is your bank

I know the manager has been

troubling you for signatures

you told me

I should take another left

if I need to reach the market

In that small corner

there is a small chinese take away place

that we loved

are you sure, a right from there

would get me to the bus-stop?
 

Here, oh your newspaper stand

you always read newspapers

in the evening.

would a straight from here

take me to my favorite bakery shop

that you have remembered?
 

This metro station has two exits

but I always get confused

where to buy the iron from

you showed me the tea place in the corner

do you think I'll be able to reach?

Is it important to have

lines and directions

latitudes and longtitudes

for all the places you want to go?

-Nishpriha

2014, goodbye!

You realize that 2014 smiles at you. It tries to show you how it has been the best than others. Yes, it has been the best, how? I do not know. Sometimes, not everything needs an explanation. That's how 2014 has been. Gentle, quiet and loving. It is like re-uniting with a lover. It's a feeling that life will hold you in arms and you would be surprised how it has made you stronger, happier.

No, it is not one of those self help books types work. It is life, that's all.

A small part of sunlight sits on a bench, you run towards it. Soon enough, it runs from you. You cry. That's how hope tricks. Next morning, you wake up with swollen eyes, sunlight wakes you up. It is with you, even when you do not notice. That's how 2014 has been.

To know that not every one can understand you.

And those who do, will not make you miss what all happened.


2014 has been the year of getting all that back in my life, I had spoilt my macbook. Cried enough, nothing happened. But this year has got it back. Not materialistic. My life has got many such things back, uncountable things. One has to wait.

Finding the passion in life,finding that you have people who would leave anything just to see you smile, is there anything more beautiful?

You have been hurt enough. You have been troubled enough.

But time is never stagnant.

Ring out the old, ring in the new.

shed the skin.

walk.

Walk in the Jahanpanah park.

Walk in the Lodhi Gardens.

Walk in the city that has usually been painful.

Walk in the city that says,

"here, here's the joy. I am late but I have given you laughter, trust."

Walk, don't stay. Time is passing.

Movement is  beauty.


2015, you are here.

I welcome you with all my smiles, all my happiness.  Thank you, for killing the sadness 2014- you made me realize only beautiful things last longer.



Tum chale jaoge to sochenge, humne kya khoya,
humne kya paaya.

(After you have left, I'll think about this-
What have I lost, what have I gained.)

Non-Places.

It is sunny, but the intensity is mild, softly dissipating warmth-what would have been possible at seven in the morning a couple of months ago. Today, it is eleven in the morning. I walk outside the campus, it is a long day, long journey.

I see an auto, I wave at him. He stops and agrees to take me to Dadri. His hands accelerate the steering once I sit in. He presses the grip firmly the moment there is a puddle or a deviation. In ten minutes, we reach Dadri. I hand over money to him, he loosens the grip and looks the interaction between our hands- although for a fraction of seconds. I look at his palm, it looks rough. The mounds at the base of the fingers have small other mounds of dry skin.

They are shaped in the shape of the gaps in the steering of the auto-rickshaw. 

The bus to the Koshambi metro station will take time, there is a traffic jam. I have to wait here for sometime. I decide to take a walk in the market at the crossroads.

An old man is beating cotton on a pile. There are piles of cotton lying on the weighing scale, with old shapeless rags nearby for making quilts. The old man is constantly talking to the customers, picking up the cotton from the piles, negotiating. I look at him carefully. He doesn't look that old. In wonder why his henna colored hair has random spots of white, from far it looked as if his hair was white. I walk close to his shop.

His hair has lots of cotton and so does his hands and feet.

A small pan (betel leaves) shop, a man is sitting next to a wooden box, with lots of small boxes, filled with nuts, licorice, cloves, peppermint. His eyes are at the customers, ears at their voices, but his hands have a movement.

His index finger red, with constant coloring on the betel leaves.

A shop for apparel. There are some clothes hanging outside, he is folding some. One of the workers has a small gaudy golden colored saree. And the other one is folding.

The one holding a gaudy saree has some golden dust on his hands and the one folding them- his index finger is a little towards the middle.

A small restaurant, young boys are cleaning the place, some are chopping the vegetables. There are tomatoes, onions and green chillies lying on a container and the floor has onion skins.

The boy has some dark lines in his hands, very similar to the marks on the onions by the knife.

 The apple seller shouts to me, I had requested him to tell me when the bus comes. I can make from his voice, it is at the same pitch as when he was shouting, apples fifty rupees per kilogram.

I board the bus, sitting next to the driver. His left foot looks arched in an unnatural way. He presses it to a small elevation to stop the bus.

There is still constant dust.

My hands remove the speck of dust from my eyes.

Surat, Memory and Metaphor

"What events do you recall in the city post 1990's?"

Pareshbhai is looking carefully at the workers cutting the small threads in the synthetic laces. He turns his face towards me after a couple of minutes, asking to repeat the question by saying, hmmm?

But before I repeat my question, he remembers it. His 'hmmm' sounds more like an act of remembering to me.

"Oh, 1990's? You know, there was an alignment in the city area (Kot Vistaar) of Surat. Lots of houses and shops were re-built according to commissioner Rao's instructions. In fact, many people lost their shops because the roads were to be broadened and they were not the owners, they had this 99 year old lease with the corporation."

I take out the cadastral map of Surat and he shows me the places that are no longer there, that are merely concretized as roads now. He looks at the map again and says, this Viramgaami mohallo is a Muslim locality but it was not the same.

"Why?" I wait for a long time after this question. I wait for his 'hmmmm' but he doesn't say anything. He scratches his sideburns. I still wait in anticipation.

I ask him again, "Do you remember anything else? Any other event in the city? Anything that affected the communities in the city area?"

"Oh yes, the floods! And the Plague! These were terrible times. The floods have ravaged this city so many times but you know, Surat is strong enough to rise back from ashes. Within fifteen days, you'll see the machines working, you'll see the city working. People do not sit back and lament the past. Which also means, we forget."

"Do you remember anything else that is forgotten?"

"No!"

"Can you tell me about what happened in 1992, 2002?"

"What happened? In Surat, we leave peacefully, in harmony. Nothing happened. We are not like them."

"Them?"

"I do not want to talk about it."

I sit there, looking at people constantly winding laces, winding pasts, throwing them in big bundles. I remember 2002 March, my birthday and the small Dargah near our house.

I look at that Dargah again. There is a striking green patch on the wall. I let a hmmm, a sigh though and remember the crack on this wall because of an axe and some stones. I look at the old man swiping peacock feathered broom on someone's head and I remember the street in March smothered with reminiscences of peacock feathers.

But hey, that road is now concrete, with multiple cars, some five fly overs and a big business complex on the right. Should I remember?

Pareshbhai and I have series of conversations, almost every day. He tells me how he remembers the story from his grandfather that the Nawabs always ruled Surat, that the Portuguese could do away with less taxes because the Nawabs were constantly thinking about their own benefits. That the Muslim merchants wanted to mint money and marginalized the Hindus. That Gurus had to come to  in Surat save the Hindus. That Hindus could not own much during the Nawabi rule, they were constantly worried about their safety and being stereotyped.

During these series of conversations that entailed memories of his grandfather's stories,

Pareshbhai never had to utter, "Hmmm?"

Prague/Praha Diaries: 1) Kafkaesque.

I like to think about the most recent and then delve into the past. Memories have no terrain. They move in crests and troughs. Sometimes, they do not move and become a narrative of the past, entertaining present. My trip to Prague was by far the most enriching experience. The city moves you. The concrete under your feet softens the pace.

While coming back from Prague, on the last day of the trip, I visited Kafka Museum. I couldn't leave the city without it. Prague is full of narratives and I could understand why it has moved Kafka, Milan Kundera, Eluard and so on. The walls are full of radical posters, on which drunk youngsters lean and kiss each other. Streets are full of music, where one singer sings a folk song and a nearby Vietnamese store entertains the tourists with drum beats and 'temperature' songs.

There's so much.

But today, it is Kafka's day.Happy Birthday Kafka.

There were no lights. A deafening music, but a piercing one. No, it was not loud. It was just sharp. There's difference.
The first wall has Kafka's childhood picture, noting- "Kafka was born into a myth called Prague".
So many times, Praha has been remodeled. From the scholars of Kebbala to the Jewish astrologers/ astronomers, everyone wanted to be there. 1895, urbanization, Praha was again organized into a new myth. Kaflka must be young at that time, probably around eight.

He must have preserved his memories of the old myth.

Walking to the school with his cook, encircling the town, carrying images of his father's shop near the town square. That circle of the city center. It encircled his life. Made him a ravachol.

Buried in the piles of bureaucratic work, Kafka wanted to move out.
But.
"Prague doesn't let go, of either of us. This Old Crone has claws."

Praha truly doesn't let go, it mesmerizes you to the point that you do not want to go out of that city's myth.
Pain can be mesmerizing too. Emptiness, nothingness, fullness.

A step further and you see Kafka's letters to his father. To his father, who was always busy expanding business and bringing the latest brands and styles. Kafka was disgusted. He leaned his shoulders, wore ill fitted clothes just to be that ravachol. To be away from that designed meaninglessness. 

When an old man comes to you at two in the night, and says, "I have nothing to eat, nowhere to go. I am old. Prague is for tourists. Prague is not for old men."

When you see the windows, houses always closed. And you wonder why.
When you know that all those are just hotels, to bring people to the myth.


But Kafka had those narratives. Behind the walls. Outside those windows.
He knew, his life is about writing. Not insurance. Not bureaucracy.

There is big slide through which Kafka shouts.
" I am nothing but literature and I want to be nothing else."

Yes. Literature consumes. It asks for that exchange of sensitivities.

His letters depict that.

There is a room that has all the posters of women Kafka loved and wrote letters to.

My favorite is Milena.

After reading all the letters, I don't know why, but I always wanted those letters.

Kafka's confession from being sleepless to discussing Dostoyevsky. His confession that her letters make him calmer, sitting in that balcony.

He writes, (My 38 Jewish years have this to say in face of your 24 years)
"Your two letters arrived together, at noon; they aren't to be read, but to be unfolded, to rest one's face on while losing one's mind." 

...
"I am too heavy for myself and too light for you."


I owe my hopeless romantic ideas to these letters. I know, that though there is nothingness, boredom, metamorphosis, but there's that spark. That spark of being charmingly united. Of loving and expecting similar things in life. And even if different things, then loving each other too much.

LH 756/757 Frankfurt

Fortuity in continuation on the spatial terms leads to long term connections. LH 757 is one of them for me. Frankfurt airport in 2012 was merely a chance- I was prepared to go to Paris.I forgot about the numbers. All I remembered was the occurrence. by which I reached Mumbai.

LH 757 for Frankfurt in May 2014 was again a chance. The travel desk for the university had booked it for me so I had no intervention in this, leave alone divine.I realized about the constant occurrences when I thought about the timings-1 AM, you reach Mumbai. Well, that has been in 2012, as well as 2014!

But LH 757 again in June. There must be something with this number. I have dreams with this number. First Heidelberg.No, no. First- Surat, then Heidelberg and now for the third time- Goettingen and Prague/Praha. I had no idea that I would be able to make it to Praha. I had my academic engagements in Goettingen. But thanks to a very good school friend, who acquainted and helped me with the arrangements. I was awestruck in Praha. Magnificent. I never thought it would be so random and I would be walking in the city, that looks like a king. Should I forget about LH757? This number has been taking care of my dream places. And why just places?

Carnival in Prague. singing, dancing, salsa, sitting on riverbanks, breathing in the golden color of the city, Kafka museum, Rudolfinum. Meeting wonderful academicians in Goettingen, listening to stimulating presentations, LH 757- you have done much more than just spatial.

First trip- I came with a baggage. I had this baggage of dreams- to see Heidelberg.
Second trip- I released it. Came back free and happy, with life beaming in.
And third- learning about life, self and places.

There's more- Vienna, you are still on my list and this time, LH 757 is going to get me to you. :)

Heidelberg!

The day I got to know I would be going to Heidelberg in May, I was crying, smiling, happy..nostalgic. I, for the first time, experienced what it is to experience mixed feelings. Heidelberg, after so long. After I had set my heart on that city. It was more like a pilgrimage for me. And academic congruence with your dream could possibly be the best thing that could happen.

I waited in Hall B at the Frankfurt airport, and I saw TLS service. The tag had a beautiful red heart on it. I knew, this would take me to Heidelberg. I don't believe in signs, but sometimes, you betray beliefs. I looked out of the window, but my eyes were constantly glued to see if we have touched Heidelberg.

Ah, there it comes. Beautiful Neckar flowing along with us. Guesthouse at the Bergheimer street was not that far from the river. Perfect. That's exactly what I dreamt about. To live closer to the river. I have shared memories of that place. The moment I reached, I unpacked and started working on my research paper. Oops, my laptop crashed. I panicked like anything.

What I knew about the city- there are no internet cafes, no pay phones. I ran to the nearest electronic store- Saturn. People were so very kind. They told me, Heidelberg has so many internet cafes. Nearest one was Haag. The walk was nice, weather was wonderful.

After finishing my presentation, I met a lot of people and we all went for a walk at the Philosopher's walk. The view of the Altstadt was brilliant. I could just sit there for hours. No wonder I set my heart on Heidelberg. It was actually so romantic.

After the philosopher's walk, I had to go back to sleep because I was too tired. I loved the German food and the hospitality. I felt that belongingness even if I had never been to this city. It was certainly not because of my pre conceived ideas and notion. 

Next day, after meeting my amazing friends, I went for a walk in the city. Walking is like honoring a place, you walk with the breeze, the fragrance, the touch, the warmth, the coldness- all these walk with you, show you the city, make you acquainted with the city. 

My first walk started from crossing the bridge. I had inhaled the old town (altstadt), now I wanted to cross the river and see this town from the other side. It was quite late. May be around 12 AM or so. But I had another engagements as well- I had to see the moon in the night. 

I had no maps. I just knew the other side is Neuenheimer Feld. But there were a couple of places I wanted to see. I asked two ladies on the road and they drew the map for me in my notebook. As I said earlier, I felt that I know this city.

Neuenheimer Feld was full of mechanical tall buildings with numbers on it. One building, number 282 caught my eye. It had these fluorocent green round decorations. A small bench to sit with the flowers. I sipped my coffee there, sipped some feelings. And went back to the bridge. Graffiti under the bridge struck me. and the ducks resonated with the liberal ideas. Liberal-Lieber-Liebe.. 

Heidelberg invites you. 

It generates that feeling of love. 

It enters your mind through that symbol of heart.

As simple as all this. 

A friend of mine had written, it is better to fall in love with places. They don't leave you. People leave you. Places always make sure you meet them.

Heidelberg did.