Thursday, November 24, 2011

There are these nights. When I walk in and out of rooms. Looking for my window. Water in a cloudy bottle of Slice, a shiny white tube of aloe vera skin cream, a lavender comb and two pink clips left in a hasty row on its ledge. Outside, a wan moon drifts in and out of puffs of charcoal cloud, one house away, the old airconditioner drips druggedly on asbestos and one rickshaw leans on the only other lamp post in the lane. In a bad dream, I just run into walls. Cold, hard and ochre.

Friday, November 18, 2011

21. Fond of plastic hoops, adjectives, long sentences and stonewashed denims. Has a job, wavy brown hair and one maroon silk saree.

I should have died then. At least I sounded good.
Will I ever know how it feels like not feeling like this?

Monday, August 8, 2011

T would never let a mirror pass. In the dark circle-hiding, blinding lustre of shopping malls, she would sneak across piles of kurtis on sale, rustle past shiny belts dangling off steel roulades and sift through unruly heaps of denims dumped between two mirrors. Look around and then slowly smoothen the crumples on the sea green linen blouse. Or lift one heel just enough to smile at the lilac nail paint against the slim silver bands of the slipper. And if no one's looking, take one lingering, teasing, audaciously blissful look at the girl in the mirror. Or the lock of brown hair curled against her neck.

The mirror at home was just a year younger than her mother. The size of her math book. Nestled between a small tower of dadu's hardbound budget notebooks and dida's half empty Pond's Dreamflower bottles resting on the top of a cupboard. Two bindis, one red and one maroon glowered back from the top left corner. In their rare absence, T would dip her handkerchief in soapwater and rub the stubborn ochre glue marks away. And wonder if she had brown eyes.

There was something strangely reassuring about vanity. About scoffing at little boxes of shimmer and colour women hover around in shops. About chuckling in silence as friends fussed around the pub washrooms. There was something strong, quietly comforting about not having to seek love. Or miss it.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

I am not a fighter.
And I have just started regretting it.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

There isn't much to say. Or maybe, there's a lot. Squeezed into chinks and corners. But I no more fancy broken, bloodied nails. Just because they have scrapes of soundless, dank nights on them.
When the rest of standard five was still infatuated with little orange erasers that smelled of rainy mornings in the middle of April, I was discovering how unforgiving, how perfectly angry the ink rubber was. And how it scourged blue-black words into little paper flakes that lolled listlessly around the silky remains of the page...
Some day, I'll come scurrying for words again. Till then, I'll be greedy, restless and wide awake.

Monday, March 29, 2010

The only time I felt the need to hear my name in boyfriend-talk, I dug out a high school crush buried for over five years under the best-friend’s men, friends’ men and their friends’ men. It’s difficult to recollect exactly when it started feeling good to be linked with X, Y, Z for the fact that they were men, but yes, it sort of added a lot of spice to two mundane words, ‘shut up!’. These were pre-smiley, pre twenties, pre boss, pre hikki (or is it hicci) days.

And I have been infatuated with this guy for ten years. Been love for about three months seven years back. I am told I have to convince the world that I am straight. I am told that a man just needs to be a man – not a Plath-chanting, Floyd-humming wonder I think he should be. I am told that I should immediately put a lid on dreams which demand men to do cute things (like buy a red saree and balk and giving it, KJO ishtyle ;)) and register for matrimonial sites which demand men to come with six figure salaries. Moustaches, love handles, white skin, and un-cuteness stand pardoned.

I should have started on Eliot five years before I did.

Someone suggest cure for hopeless, straight women?