Wednesday, 27 May 2015
Friday, 20 February 2015
Bhimasena: lover, keeper of secrets, healer.
How burdensome your love for
The lotus-blue Panchali
To whom the Saugandhika
and it's quest were just another sorcery
Of dark eyes.
My skin lightens, Bhimasena, draining
Itself of jet, along with the memory of you
The seed grows, Bhimasena, and I grow big
Enough to envelope the forest in my womb
In an incestuous hope that you will enter it.
The forest, it grows dark, Bhimasena
Dark as our love was when you chose
To walk away, dutiful son, loving brother
Absent father. Bhimasena
(Inspired by Bhima: Lone Warrior, the English of Randamoozham by MT Vasudevan Nair)
Monday, 19 January 2015
We sat watching the sky one day,
Me and I, drunk on rain and the universe.
We talked of love, and light that travels sullen and ancient,
A requiem to the stars.
The Saturday sky turned a many-layered cocktail
Heady, unreal, a sky that was ours
Each band of colour differing in weight,
Just like the love we knew
Dragons emerged from the periphery of our shared boredom, the suburbia of our existence,
Embroidering the sky with calligraphy of fire,
What if, we thought.
A gigantic T Rex, a colossal wall of water, a tired, dying sun.
The world had been quiet too long.
What else was there to see but stealthy spaceships, resurrected reptiles
And wise dragons that extinguished love
With an ancient, magic flame.
Saturday, 17 January 2015
It isn't easy to explain why I tweet. I am not even sure I can, even if I wanted to. I'm always surprised when people say they enjoy the things I tweet. I tweet mostly about completely irrelevant things, sometimes I open up a discussion and at other times I tweet links to my writing. My following list is impeccable, though. News, feminism, writing, poetry art, music, cars, crochet, photography and friends. I truly believe the list of people I follow is a delight.
But there's always some level of discomfort when I am asked how I met one of my closest friends, or when someone asks me how I know something, or someone, when the answer is Twitter. It isn't the easiest thing to say in a social setting that isn't online. It gets awkward and I shy away from the judging a little.
The truth, really, is that social media has opened up for me the world. So much has been altered and affected because of it, especially with regard to information, to the kind of people I choose to interact with, even the kind of books I read. For the life of me, I wouldn't have been this aware of issues of, say, trans people of colour if it weren't for Twitter. Or about the complete and utter asinine attitudes of Hindu right wing fanatics. That's the kind of stuff newspapers in India rarely ever carry. While all of it is fascinating, the larger gain has been the wealth of interactions and the few friends I have made.
It isn't very difficult for me to feel affection and take to people who are interesting. I trust them to be good human beings and have very rarely been let down. On social media, it is particularly easy because, according to me, you weed out the peripherals right in the beginning. Your interests bring you together, perceived anonymity and not being physically present in front of someone makes it easier to say what you really want to say without being intimidated by their presence. Even when you aren't having a conversation with them, you are witness to what they talk about and make your own mind up about them. Someone seems talented and beautiful, and you feel that you want to get to know them a little better but suddenly a bigoted streak emerges, and you shut down. Another seems intelligent and charming and then you meet them and you understand everything about them is made of Google. It's quick, and judgemental, to do this but what I am trying to say is that you actively choose your friends, instead of hanging out with colleagues, train friends, old school/college buddies or neighbours because chance threw them your way.
The friends I have made on Twitter are solid gold. The connections I've forged are simple, direct and full of love. When I hear people say, "Wow, people make friends on Twitter," in that condescending tone, it makes me feel a gamut of things. I feel defensive, amused, annoyed all at once. And then it occurs to me that these are also the people who have fallen for a Nigerian bank scam or found their partners on matrimonial websites.
These connections I have made have all moved offline, into a space where we make the effort to keep in touch with each other in various ways. It is also the reason I prefer to use the words offline/online life instead of real or virtual. Real life automatically assumes that the connections made online are fantastical, or illusions at any rate, and therefore insignificant. But look at the scores of people who have found companionship, help, sisterhood and love online. How is that unreal? What part of throwing yourself into a teeming timeline alive with personality when you want to get away for a bit is unreal or unwelcome? I get a glimpse of a shy, funny guy who goes trekking almost every weekend and his Instagram in autumn is soul-fillingly beautiful. A new father, doing his best to be an involved one, tweets about his little child with pride and love. A homemaker, a magician with words, makes me look at flowers, snails and torn leaves like I've never seen. I get a peek into the life of young girl who lives a charmed life, everything perfect and she, grateful for it and beautiful at it. A girl who likes elephants and is honest and open, another who embodies love herself. Yet another who created the word optimism. One who likes post-its, another guy who says exactly what he wants. Another who hides, and another who reveals. People who constantly make choices that make you think about your own, people who bring serendipity into your life by being who they are, people who are genuine and warm and empathic. Why would I exchange this for a neighbor who concretised his entire lawn or a colleague who doesn't like to dance?
I spend a lot of my time alone and for me Twitter has become a huge companion. Does it reduce stress? I think it might. Does it help me cope? You bet. And it isn't just me. A friend tweets about being alone with her child, and a wave of warm sympathy flows to her. Another tweets about a health issue, and I see a swarm of concerned tweets directed at him. I tweet about being lonely, sad, sleepless and the lucky ducky that I am, I am deluged with messages and tweets from complete strangers, filled with hugs, stories of their own, suggestions to sleep better, offers to call me.
It restores my faith in the goodness of people and gives me the luxury of being able to continue trusting people. I am glad if women feel better about themselves because their selfie gets a ton of compliments or if you use a heavily-distracting time line to get away from your little mess. Am I going to die, old and lonely with my phone screen for company? Maybe. But hey, at least I'll die with people who will tweet about my funeral.
Monday, 1 December 2014
Sunday, 30 November 2014
My soul. What more can I give you?
Pretty words are just that. Instead, you say,
Give me your understanding, give me a world without you.
Sunday, 2 November 2014
He loved me with kisses on the forehead,
Strung poems in my hair
As I lay against his warm skin, on a bed on the floor,
While a Madras moon stood guard outside my window.
I loved a magician once
With dancing feet and a crooked smile.
He claimed my shoulder as his own one night,
As he made the stars rain with his sleight of hand;
His vanishing trick, an unmatched act.
I've even loved a bore, a nice guy who couldn't see
That I would be best when I lived free
He gave me trinkets in silver when I ran
A bribe, an imploring or a slave chain.
Totems for each of them, a horcrux for all.
A radio song for the magician,
Scars for the poet,
The bore, books and patience.
My evening settles, gentle and low, a houseful of silence
Knocking at my door.
I open up a magic box, the magician's gift to me
Take out a poem, yellow, old and rusty
A caress here, a paw there, a hard yank of my hair
A memory, a moth, an unused black quill
They clamber out of the poem, and sit on my hands,
I greet them, gentle and slow
Where have they been, I ask
To the poet, the magician, or with the bore?
Sunday, 19 October 2014
For about five years now, it's just the kids and I who have been living together. With kids around, the snuggles are quite a few. What's more, however, is them bumping into you, them wanting to be picked up, them stepping on your toes shod in new shoes, their elbows digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, their feet on your faces, their heads crashing into your PMSing breasts, their grubby, food-hands on your arm, them clambering on your shoulders for a better view when all you're trying to do is sit quietly in bed and find some peace. To some, that sounds romantic and sweet, and in all fairness, it is quite cute. I know I'll miss it when they grow up and stop touching me so much. I started to wonder, though, why was I so conscious of their sense of utter claim over my body. Why, like most mothers, wasn't I taking this for granted; in a sense why was I even thinking about it.
The answer came to me a couple of weeks ago, when my parents were visiting. My mum, mostly reticent about physical expressions of love, casually stroked my back. At any other moment in my 20s, that would probably have translated to me as a warm assurance of something she was thinking about. This time, however, that touch electrified me. It made me stop what I was doing and tell my mother, I like it when you touch me like that. As is my wont, I said it before I thought about it and the more I thought about it, the more absurd it sounded to me. That a little motherly touch like that would awake all my nerve endings. From there, thought was but a giddy spiral and things that I hadn't thought about it years, or perhaps ever, emerged.
For someone who thrives on touch, who actively likes all forms of physical affection, I realise I haven't had the comfort of touch in years. A quick hug these days has become like shaking hands, but sharing a hug with someone who genuinely loves you -- as a friend, as a lover, in a filial way or in a fraternal way -- has healing qualities that one cannot ignore. Holding hands with a woman when words are not enough, sitting in the crook of a man's arm as you watch a film, being hugged by a caring, affectionate friend, feeling strength and love in that embrace -- those things have come rarely and intermittently to me in five years. And I didn't think about it till recently, when I realised each nerve ending in my body was screaming to be touched, to be told in more than words that someone cares enough and likes you enough to hold your hand, kiss your cheek, ruffle your hair, and not just get into your pants.
I argue, then, with myself, as I am prone to doing. Isn't the touch of my kids enough? After all, I am always cuddling them, kissing them, holding them, touching them in a sense that is complete and natural. They reciprocate too. Little imprints of wet tiny lips stay on my cheek for hours after I've had a kiss. And what kisses they are: the kids put everything into them, their entire body arches up into mine, and they pour every minute of their existence thus far into kissing me, hugging me. That should be enough, I think, and yet I find it isn't. I cannot understand why it is so, but I know it isn't.
I do not miss the sexual touch at all. In fact, I miss it least of all. There is warmth and comfort in that, no doubt, but I don't find its lack big enough in my life to go looking for it. A loving hug, hell I'll walk miles for it. I lose words sometimes, I am severely limited by the fact that I can only think in two languages, neither of them my official mother tongue. I find English severely limiting when I want to express the overflow of love I feel for some people. I find it frustrating that I can't say anything beyond I love you so much my heart feels like it's drowning and bursting at the same time. In a non-platonic relationship, that feeling is easy to translate. But in a friendship that's pure and simple about love, what does one do? Invariably, then, I express with my body and skin. My skin that revolts belonging to the rest of me and rises up in a life of its own, my arms that love hugs and being filled up with the form of someone I love.
In moments of intensity, I observe my skin like a layer of ghost. It separates from the rest of me and between itself and the next layer of flesh forms a raging, roiling river of energy. It lifts in a blue, restless wave, crashing against itself because it has nowhere to go but back in the channel formed between my skin and flesh. I know this energy is calling out for soothing. I know this cold fire that my skin is on is willing to be doused, but all around me, most times, is the freedom of space, and air and the wind. Too much of everything.
Friday, 5 September 2014
Wednesday, 28 May 2014
Recently, a flight attendant had a job offer withdrawn by Emirates when they found out she had once been treated for depression. I was angry, saddened and outraged by this in equal measure. People with mental illnesses have it tough as it is, without them being at the mercy of unemployment. In light of that, the following post is about mental illness, two of which I live with. If you'd like to stop now, you should. Because, I know, one story of mental illness sounds like another story of mental illness. And it might be exactly the same thing. Because illnesses are a great leveller. But every time a story is told, two things happen.
If you think you might be suffering from depression or any other mental illness, here are a few things that I hope will help.
1. Go to a good counsellor any way. You could come away with an all-clear. My suggestion would be to go to a counsellor instead of heading to a psychiatrist first. I find the latter, in India, are all too eager to prescribe medication, and have generally found them less willing to listen, and use alternate therapies. A good psychiatrist or psychologist will usually suggest a combination of medication and what is informally called talk-therapy. I was lucky enough to find it at NIMHANS.
2. I regularly told two people in my life that I think something is wrong with me and that I need help. They were in denial and didn't make much of it. (I don't blame them, I was a fully functioning individual.) Don't be afraid to tell someone you love and/or trust that you want to seek help, and badger them over it. Enlisting support to go to a counsellor is a good idea, the diagnosis can be a bit sudden and quite possibly, a shock to take.
3. Don't overread or take pop-quizzes and self-diagnose. We all have traits of most "disorders" in us. Only when they start affecting the smooth functioning of your life can it be considered a problem.
4. You don't have to be ashamed, afraid, cynical. You might be extremely intelligent, extremely self-aware and you might think no counsellor can help you. I did. I was wrong.
5. Find a hobby.