Posted:
(For my dearest Aahana.)
On rainy evenings like this, Sowmya doesn't like to be Sowmya. She stands still, looking out from the windows, closes her eyes and inhales the freshness of earth. Her heart aches as rains remind her of her mother, her brother and similar evenings spent by, sipping adrak waali chai and devouring samosas while laughing at brother's stupid jokes and mother's update on the latest gossips going around among the women in their locality.
Sowmya feels like a child, a five year old, who'd wail loudly in agony if mother doesn't return from the market quick or who looks at her devilish elder brother with awe and admiration for being able to tie the laces of his shoes and who thinks she will have her family, complete and intact, happy and jovial, always.
When in life are we taught to cope up with loss except at time of loss? This is the truth, swallow it, live with it, don't live with it forever, life goes on. Life after loss somehow tends to be a defense mechanism, she muses.The reminder of absence and loss slips in daily routines like a ghost and the hurt and pain resurfaces.
For a love angel, love didn't come easy. A broken smile, heart in a fire of deep agony, buried conversations so long due with her brother and a piece of poetry. If life wasn't about dissolving in its creases seamlessly, why would death be needed to put a stop to that?
For her, memories are triggered by smell because most of them are blurred in images.
She misses her mother today, more than any other day. She yearns for her family, complete and intact, happy and jovial, always.
My mother
isn't easy to read
And sometimes
Me and my brother
(who's elder to me by twenty two months and eight days precise)
like to think that
she fits into every stereotypes
and the generation she belongs to-
is an unassembled mix of irrationality and is
Just
Incapable of understanding
Independence
Or liberty
Or anything at all.
Sometimes I look at my mother
and think if she could give it a rest,
Why do you wake up at 5 in the morning and then
Cook for me
Because I've classes at 6 a.m.
Just give it a goddamn break, mother
I'm old enough
I'm adult enough
And every year when we
Forget her birthdays
And realize after a month passes by,
she laughs and says
She's too old to celebrate birthday anyways.
And there are days
she lays out restrictions,
And brother and I,
feel violated
Mother, they are unnecessary impositions
Let us be
Give us space to grow
And we spit out bitter words
Cry
And momentarily hate
There was always a other way, I think now
But my mother,
is it old age kicking in?
She forgets
the venom we instil in the image of her
on those days
My mother
thinks darn too much
Every day in between breakfasts and dinners,
she worries that if her elder son,
now in a hostel,
is eating enough
or not
And my brother,
he's changed,
He doesn't draw out absurd conclusions
on our mother anymore
'He's turned to be such a responsible boy.' she says
every time he calls
And the happiness I see in her eyes,
is beyond my recognition
'Mother, you're over-reacting.' I say
And she just smiles
On days,
despite the differences
in opinions and perspectives
That clouds over the
both silly and serious arguments,
I wish for nothing
But to put the weight of my world
On my mother's lap
And she'd so easily silence
The chaos
And wipe off the tears
From my eyes
Just like when I was five
I don't understand my mother
She smiles through every aftermath
Of a disaster
Maybe
We were never meant to
You know, understand her early
And maybe we've to but understand her
For brief times, everytime
And forget
Maybe
We all are-
this lucky and unlucky
Both together.
***
Anika wonders what the meaning of her name is. She doesn't know how to speak English, yes but she knows a lot of obscure Hindi words (which annoys some people) and she knows so many things and despite knowing so many things- how could she not know what her name meant?
Of course, she knows that she knows what her name means.
She waits. Although without realizing. She waits for someone to come upto her, eyes filled with love unimaginable and a smile so proud, to come and tell her the meaning of her name and how impeccably she lives up to that. Anika.
Meaning of her name is the only thing she selfishly desires.
In a world full of crisis, she acknowledges her identity.
Because she thinks it is identity crisis that constructs all and vice versa.
And she knows so many things. So many things.
Like,
There's anger, melancholy, frustration, rage, pain and a justifiable (or completely unreasonable) reason to keep them at bay. At times.
***
Ishana doesn't care. She doesn't know grand things. She may not understand the dynamics of society. She is least bothered about consequences. It is not in her system to think about the world. She only loves a few and how fiercely she does that.
For Ishana, the line doesn't exist.
But Ishana has turbulences of her own.
Fights she is not prepared to fight, yet.
Situations that would perplex her, confuse her- in more ways than it would do to others.
What nonsense has been she scribbling?
What an odd illustration of heart that deceits and yet hopes for untainted honesty.
Do you know I plagiarize thoughts
take one from you, hideously
I , then, sew it on mine
I am but your maiden
Your words culminating
with my doctrines
I, nursing, your conscience
I surrender
flesh and bones and thoughts and horizons. Naked.
I but take you in
flesh and bones and thoughts and horizons. Contained.
Page no seventy two. It reads 'Life should be all backwards.'
Where's the compass but in you,
Your mentations, my jurisdictions
Haha, let me dance in my inanities
as I let you caress
my vulnerabilities
As your dimensions make outrageous love with my conventions
What a mockery I make
of myself
What is in my love for you
but misinterpretations and outlandish delusions
Moments of made up deja vu
And superstitious inklings
And jeopardized rationality
And utter madness
I will but die on loose ends
The legal doctrine goes-
res ipsa loquiter
The thing speaks for itself
***
On rainy evenings like this, Sowmya doesn't like to be Sowmya. She stands still, looking out from the windows, closes her eyes and inhales the freshness of earth. Her heart aches as rains remind her of her mother, her brother and similar evenings spent by, sipping adrak waali chai and devouring samosas while laughing at brother's stupid jokes and mother's update on the latest gossips going around among the women in their locality.
Sowmya feels like a child, a five year old, who'd wail loudly in agony if mother doesn't return from the market quick or who looks at her devilish elder brother with awe and admiration for being able to tie the laces of his shoes and who thinks she will have her family, complete and intact, happy and jovial, always.
When in life are we taught to cope up with loss except at time of loss? This is the truth, swallow it, live with it, don't live with it forever, life goes on. Life after loss somehow tends to be a defense mechanism, she muses.The reminder of absence and loss slips in daily routines like a ghost and the hurt and pain resurfaces.
For a love angel, love didn't come easy. A broken smile, heart in a fire of deep agony, buried conversations so long due with her brother and a piece of poetry. If life wasn't about dissolving in its creases seamlessly, why would death be needed to put a stop to that?
For her, memories are triggered by smell because most of them are blurred in images.
She misses her mother today, more than any other day. She yearns for her family, complete and intact, happy and jovial, always.
My mother
isn't easy to read
And sometimes
Me and my brother
(who's elder to me by twenty two months and eight days precise)
like to think that
she fits into every stereotypes
and the generation she belongs to-
is an unassembled mix of irrationality and is
Just
Incapable of understanding
Independence
Or liberty
Or anything at all.
Sometimes I look at my mother
and think if she could give it a rest,
Why do you wake up at 5 in the morning and then
Cook for me
Because I've classes at 6 a.m.
Just give it a goddamn break, mother
I'm old enough
I'm adult enough
And every year when we
Forget her birthdays
And realize after a month passes by,
she laughs and says
She's too old to celebrate birthday anyways.
And there are days
she lays out restrictions,
And brother and I,
feel violated
Mother, they are unnecessary impositions
Let us be
Give us space to grow
And we spit out bitter words
Cry
And momentarily hate
There was always a other way, I think now
But my mother,
is it old age kicking in?
She forgets
the venom we instil in the image of her
on those days
My mother
thinks darn too much
Every day in between breakfasts and dinners,
she worries that if her elder son,
now in a hostel,
is eating enough
or not
And my brother,
he's changed,
He doesn't draw out absurd conclusions
on our mother anymore
'He's turned to be such a responsible boy.' she says
every time he calls
And the happiness I see in her eyes,
is beyond my recognition
'Mother, you're over-reacting.' I say
And she just smiles
On days,
despite the differences
in opinions and perspectives
That clouds over the
both silly and serious arguments,
I wish for nothing
But to put the weight of my world
On my mother's lap
And she'd so easily silence
The chaos
And wipe off the tears
From my eyes
Just like when I was five
I don't understand my mother
She smiles through every aftermath
Of a disaster
Maybe
We were never meant to
You know, understand her early
And maybe we've to but understand her
For brief times, everytime
And forget
Maybe
We all are-
this lucky and unlucky
Both together.
***
Anika wonders what the meaning of her name is. She doesn't know how to speak English, yes but she knows a lot of obscure Hindi words (which annoys some people) and she knows so many things and despite knowing so many things- how could she not know what her name meant?
Of course, she knows that she knows what her name means.
She waits. Although without realizing. She waits for someone to come upto her, eyes filled with love unimaginable and a smile so proud, to come and tell her the meaning of her name and how impeccably she lives up to that. Anika.
Meaning of her name is the only thing she selfishly desires.
In a world full of crisis, she acknowledges her identity.
Because she thinks it is identity crisis that constructs all and vice versa.
And she knows so many things. So many things.
Like,
There's anger, melancholy, frustration, rage, pain and a justifiable (or completely unreasonable) reason to keep them at bay. At times.
***
Ishana doesn't care. She doesn't know grand things. She may not understand the dynamics of society. She is least bothered about consequences. It is not in her system to think about the world. She only loves a few and how fiercely she does that.
For Ishana, the line doesn't exist.
But Ishana has turbulences of her own.
Fights she is not prepared to fight, yet.
Situations that would perplex her, confuse her- in more ways than it would do to others.
What nonsense has been she scribbling?
What an odd illustration of heart that deceits and yet hopes for untainted honesty.
Do you know I plagiarize thoughts
take one from you, hideously
I , then, sew it on mine
I am but your maiden
Your words culminating
with my doctrines
I, nursing, your conscience
I surrender
flesh and bones and thoughts and horizons. Naked.
I but take you in
flesh and bones and thoughts and horizons. Contained.
Page no seventy two. It reads 'Life should be all backwards.'
Where's the compass but in you,
Your mentations, my jurisdictions
Haha, let me dance in my inanities
as I let you caress
my vulnerabilities
As your dimensions make outrageous love with my conventions
What a mockery I make
of myself
What is in my love for you
but misinterpretations and outlandish delusions
Moments of made up deja vu
And superstitious inklings
And jeopardized rationality
And utter madness
I will but die on loose ends
The legal doctrine goes-
res ipsa loquiter
The thing speaks for itself
***
Hindi TV Shows
