I Write To Remember

Today, I write because words escape me.
Today, I write because it is my last day,
I write because I want to
preserve this memory forever.
Today, I write to create a memory.

Memories are tricky things.
There have been innumerable instances
when I was emotional
enough to want to preserve,
remember, recall that one moment
and it will be like my mind
has flipped open a diary and it writes,
“pg 73, dated September 7, 2016, 17:16
Hauz Khas Village, w. friends” or
“pg 108, dated August 29, 2014, 08:33
Home, just woken up w. sister” or
“pg 7, dated January 3, 2012, 23:41
Home, crush messaged,”
and I remind myself of the date
and time and the people,
over and over and over.

What I remember instead is:
sleepover at my friend’s house and the
sky and the city from the fifteenth floor balcony
and my sister, chastising me
for having eaten the rest of the cake
she had saved for her friends
and Babaji calling me ‘special,
his favorite granddaughter’ when
I fetched him a glass of water.

But today, I force myself to
remember the last day (and night)
in the house, home,
I’ve called mine for over half my life.
I force myself to remember the
quotes on my wall and the
Kurt Cobain suicide note that I painted,
along with a beautifully,
carefully given carelessly-busy
look I have to the pin board
with all my papers. I photograph
the dirty, old One Direction
posters on the wall and the fairy
lights that dance around it,
the guitar in the corner,  the
two books on my bedside,
the photograph exhibit that I
made for my room after my final exam.
I imbibe in the memory, the
sweet smell of the talcum powder
and the harsh one of the deodorant.

Today, I write for my room,
I write for the most selfish
reasons because today I write
for myself. I write for the nostalgia
that will hit me in the gut
when I see a blue that is similar
to the one on my walls
and the familiar smell that
comforted me in the dark, lonely nights,
and the happiness I felt
sneaking Maggi in the dead of the night
to go with my latest binge
watch program.

Today, I write for myself
and that’s the best I can do
before I collapse in tears
at what I am leaving behind.

“For Humans”

There was once an old lady,
who had lived all and was waiting
for her death, with a troubled breath,
As she stood by the door,
every day more devastating.
She’d lost her husband to the land,
and there was no other name bearer,
who could live to her legacy and
be told in the bards, as the son of one
to whom death was the most dear.

Each day with a bated breath, she
looked forward to her final visitor,
But he never came and she always cried
because she really thought
it really was her time.
Her neighbors, her crazy kept at a distance
but that didn’t stop them to whisper,
“Ah that old, mental, moronic lady
Who is she waiting for to take her crazy,
a demonic mister?”

But somehow, things changed, as mostly she,
she realized they weren’t waiting for her
As much as she was for death,
And things changed, and soon the neighbor
kids played until they were panting with breath.
She made cookies and called for tea,
all the fancy dressed, beautiful ladies,
And soon her garden was bright and gay
And loneliness, she barred and mostly
was like a bright day in May.

But one day, when all the ladies
Came to her house for their tea
and the daily gossip they all shared,
they found the door locked, and her house
strangely, dead, and lifeless, and bare.
Worried, they rushed and somehow
broke the door and they entered,
upon a lifeless host, they cried,
The old widow, lying on the floor,
with a smile on her face, had died.

They looked around and some rushed 
out to call for help, but one, 
spotted a piece of paper, on the bed.
They shrieked, and some stood stunned
and then, cried in horror; 
it was from Death.

“She was a poor sod who thought, 
she’d lived life to the fullest,
Oh, what a fool humans are, 
They don’t know what is the best.
Waiting for me instead when you
should be making memories,
living life with love and people who are dear.
So that once you die, there are no fears
of having not taken the chance,
the chance to be alive after death,
to be alive in others’ memories and hearts.
And that’s why I kept her waiting,
for she didn’t know what’s right,
But fear not, my ladies,
She came to me with a smile,
and looked down upon all of you,
and waved a goodbye;
she sprinkled on some pixie dust,
And rests now, with her husband,
very happy and content, high above.”

Five Word Challenge: July 2015

I came across the Five Word Challenge: July 2015 set by David/Megan here through a challenge response. I found it interesting so here goes my post. But before you get reading, I would like for you to take a look at my previous post Music Today here to know the background story and get properly into the feel of it.

The story starts here:

We look so weird because papa was testing the timer of the camera.

I am crawling on the floor and mumma is in the kitchen, probably preparing dinner for us. I am trying to walk these days. Sometimes, I stand for a few seconds and then collapse on the floor. When mumma first saw me stand for three seconds, she nearly cried with happiness. Now, when she is free, she sits some distance away from me and tries to make me walk, holding my hand or finger till I reach her. She claps when I do. She is so pretty when she laughs. I make my way across the room to the kitchen and hug mumma’s leg. She sees me and smiles, “Niki, come on!” 

She abandons her work, scoops me up in her arms and kisses me. She carries me towards the open balcony and there, some distance away, we both see the sun set gradually behind the mountain range that surrounds our small town of Phuntsholing. I see that she glances at the bridge across the valley that materializes from the dense tree cover  and I know what she is thinking. She is waiting for daddy. 

Suddenly the clouds rumble, a low, growling sound, that sounds very similar to what daddy makes in the bathroom when he is constipated. It comes as no surprise to mumma as it rains every other day here. I like it because she lets me play in the rain. She sets me down in my swing so that she can pick the clothes she had left out to dry. 

After she is done, she carries me inside and feeds me daal and rice. It starts raining soon after. Daddy has still not come. I can see that mumma is worried. It is already dark, and the rain makes it extremely hard to drive on the curvy roads. Suddenly the bell rings. I let out a shriek of happiness and crawl-run my way to the door, where mumma is already there, with a towel for daddy to dry. Daddy looks tired as he removes his tie, but as soon as he sees me, his eyes light up and a grin makes in way. He picks me up, kisses me, and says, “Muchano,” I don’t know why he calls me that, “kaisi ho?” How are you? 

I shout again and he throws me in the air. I laugh happily as he catches me. Mumma says, “Dinner is ready. I have set it in the balcony so that we can enjoy the rain too. You can also click some photographs.” She adds with a smile. She knows my father is an avid photographer; how much he loves to click my photographs and how much I love modelling for him. 

Daddy takes me to the balcony and on the way, we pass the music system. “You know what, Muchano,” he says lovingly, “there is a song that I luuurve, would you hear it?” he tickles me as he says. I laugh again, as he puts on a cassette. 

“Jagjit Singh,” he says grandly. “One of the finest shayars of all time.” 

As they settle down for dinner, and me for a round two, I look around me and smile. This is my family, these are the people that I love. My life is not illusion, it is a reality. I am happy. 

Daydreamer Challenge Day 1

This poetry is in response to The Daydreamer Challenge set up by the interesting blogger The Teen Daydreamer that begins today. Look up here if you want to know more. The challenge for today is this. I hope you join this challenge because it’s fun and enjoyable and amazing here.

Please ignore the really ugly me. I was sunburned and wet to the core. This was taken when my dadi (grandma) entered the ocean and reacted hysterically to it. Clicked in June’12, Goa.

The first thought that came to me,
“Wow! Look at this beauty!”
That beach in Goa which was my first,
It was so picturesque, it was so thrilling,
I was sure my happy bubble, no one could burst.
The mighty ocean and the majestic sky,
Stretching on endlessly, I could feel time fly by.
The relentless winds and the humid air,
I was in the moment, I was everywhere.
The wet sand that dug beneath my feet,
Taking me with it, in the ocean, from the beach.
The occasional shell when the tide rolled in,
And from the bar beside- a tonic and gin.
The heavenly sunsets and the early sunrise,
The late night walks on the ocean side.
Sleeping beneath the stars and the night sky.
I never knew for it to be so huge, oh my!
And yes, there were dogs and shit,
But I don’t mind that a bit.
Because it was one of my best holidays,
Of time well spent- happy and gay.
And in all honesty, the best part was the beach.
It’s sad that it’s now so far beyond my reach.
Because I live in north and it’s way down in west.
And also that I don’t have so much time to rest!

Haiku #5

Memories, written in indelible ink,
Can be erased at will.
Which ever, whenever you want.

Old Memories.

The old stories kept me awake at night.
The door closed, switched off the lights.
How we cuddled at precisely this hour,
In the cool breeze beneath the stars.
Those teenage days have long since passed,
Leaving nothing but memories and scars.
Of the relinquished love you promised,
Who knew years later, you’ll still be missed.
We were kids of fun and play,
Our love pure, no hate, no pain.
It was you and me against the world.
Now the idea is just absurd.
When I ran into you yesterday,
I didn’t know what to say.
I was delighted to say the least,
Of all the fantastical possibilities.
The possibilities, I’d cooked up nights awake,
Holding on to a hope, you’d given me to take.
Our teenage love, though misunderstood,
Will surpass all pestilences that it’s way stood.
That hope was broken beyond repair,
When you told me you didn’t care,
For me as a girl you liked any longer.
But this foolish heart, still for you, grew fonder.
And ever since then, the old stories have kept me awake at night.
The door closed, switched off the lights.
But meeting you yesterday has given me strength.
And I’ll protect me love for you at any length.
Yet the memories I can’t keep any longer.
They make me weak, not stronger.
How we cuddled at precisely this hour,
In the cool breeze beneath the stars.