Whiskey

I want to strip
The taste
Of whiskey
From your mouth
More so now –
That it’s forbidden
On my lips
Like your lips were
A lifetime ago.
And every time
I hold you down
Between my knees
I hold the world.
Once, you loved
My long, dark hair
Covering all our
Transgressions
Now you love
The cracked, jagged
Beautiful edges,
I let remain
Because you can promise
The world
To my neck.
Beneath my
Wicked, wicked ways
My collection of strays
My smiles, my guiles
My fixation with erstwhiles
I’m always on my knees
Ripping my heart
To shreds for you
Always.
I’m always trespassing
Encroaching
Conquering
Stripping every sin
From you iniquitous mouth
Always.
I’m always crossing
Lines, flying miles
Beyond taboo
But I begin
And end
With you
Always.

Make Up and Meditation

I was never a particularly still child. Except when I was reading, I was a little twitchy, a little all over the place and a little lost in my own head (not much has changed).

So, for as long as I remember, I have been told that meditation would really benefit me. To be honest - I make it a few days of guided meditation and then it goes to shit. I get bored real easy and I know that is something meditation and mindfulness is supposed to fix but I don't think I have the patience to let it. At least, not yet.

My mental health has not been at the best of places in the last few years. To put it simply, I am not as happy and as self-reliant as I used to be. This to a part, I feel has been pathologized by the people around me. Yes, I am not always very happy and yes I need to be healthier in a number of ways but I don't think I quite on the brink of anything terrible just yet. However, I have learned (obvious though it may seem) that you don't need to wait to be on the brink of disaster before you do something about being happier.

So I am learning to be more mindful of my moods, my feelings and my days. This does not come easily to me. I love to talk and I especially love talking about myself but I am not a very introspective person. I do think a lot of my troubles do stem from a subconscious refusal to look at myself clearly.

This is where my 3 shade days come in. I have spent months and years rolling out of bed at the last possible minute, putting jeans and a sweatshirt, brushing my hair quickly and running out the door. So on the days I look somewhat put together and actually put on some makeup - those are the good days. I woke up early, I wasn't rushed, I had time, I had space, I could breathe. And on the rare days, where I pull out my Naked palette and use not one, not two, but 3 shades (experimentally and like an absolute novice), you know that day is going to be good. Or at least, it started real good.

Doing my makeup is kind of like meditation for me. It forces me to stop and breathe and actually take a minute and only do one thing at a time. I have to stand in front of the mirror and just look at myself. I can't watch TV, I can't talk to someone. It's just me and my face and my hands and the mirror. It's more mindful than you would think.

It also forces me to look - really look - at my face. I live in so many parallel worlds in my head ( I always have, always will: Maladaptive Daydreaming) that being forced to look at the reality of my physical existence - it's very centering. It forces me to look and see what actually exists, what actually is. It doesn't usually come with self-loathing. I look at my face, with all the flaws and strengths and I just have accept it and accentuate it as much as I am able.

Doing my make up is a reality check. Mirrors are important. I realize I live my life as a series of what ought to bes. In some ways, that is grand. I believe it makes me a very aspirational person. But it also leaves a huge gap between what is and what ought to be and a lot of my sadness and anger and rage emerge from that difference. People ought to be kind because I am kind. I ought to look better. I ought to study more. As a former IR student, I cannot resist in making the comparison - I am very a normative person, always obsessing with what ought to be - both in myself and how people around me treat me. Doing my make up, it forces me to be more empirical. I have to work with what is there, not what should be.

Sometimes, I am not happy with what is there. That is alright. But I need to know what is there before I can figure how to change it. I don't how to change a lot of things in my life right now. In parts, I am lonely, broke, anxious, unemployed and unfit. I want to be none of those things. But I am recognizing some of those things are symptomatic of my age and my place in the world. So makeup does help me realize what really is. I already know what ought to be. If could build a bridge of 'how' between the two and traverse it - I think I could be happy then.

For the moment, this is where I am. This just is. Today was not a 3 shade day, but today was a red lipstick day. It's tiny bridge from what was (unbrushed hair and a guilty lie in) to what ought to have been (decent outfit, eyeliner and lovely red lips). It's a bridge. I'll learn to build others.

Till I do, I look forward to my 3 shade days.

I hope you do too.

Poetic Returns - NaPoWriMo2017 #3

Poetic Returns

The last entry 

On my blog

Is dated June 2015

If unposted, then unwritten

I was always 

An exhibitionist. 

So, Is this

A triumphant return

Wiser, Better, Brighter? 

Hardly. 

Scared-er, Quieter, Softer

Befitting, for poetic returns. 

Conquering Sleep

I don’t know if insomnia comes naturally to me or if I artificially constructed it in a bid to get more time to just do things. Pointless, useless but absolutely vital to my mental health kind of things. I do know that it was so long ago – almost a decade – that I can’t really remember anymore. What I am left with is this – a large amount of information on mostly irrelevant things, a deeply intimate knowledge of every single hour the clock chimes after midnight and what looks like chronic sleep deprivation. I always used to pride myself on my ability to get by on 4 or less hours of sleep, night after night with perhaps a couple of nights every 10 days where I crash for 10 hours straight. Yes, I can get by. I don’t know if it is sheer dint of will or it’s the same thing that makes me sit, writing out essays, studying for exams at the very last minute when most people would be succumbing to a panic attack due to the absolute bleakness of prospects. Whatever this thing is – this ability to work under pressure, to put my mind under considerable strain, to just keep going – mentally at least – it used to be an asset. Now, as I get older, the toll it takes is getting harder and harder to ignore. The irritability I can always mask by overcompensating by being cheerful and considerate. The tiredness is combated by coffee and some secret reserve of manic energy. The health issues are not immediately visible and I am human enough to ignore them. And if it all gets a bit too much, I sleep for 8 hours for a couple of nights, get rid of the immediate signs of sleep deprivation and go right back to the same old routine. I don’t know why I don’t sleep on time –even when I have all the time in the world. Maybe I don’t like being left alone with nothing but my thoughts before sleep comes. Maybe I am too addicted to mental stimulation – even it is something as simple as reading. Maybe I just want to do too much and there aren’t enough hours in the day. I used to hope that getting to the why might help me figure out how to conquer sleep. Sometimes, when I am at my most brutally honest (and in the privacy of my mind, I always am –isn’t everyone?) I think maybe that it’s just a combination of laziness and an absolute lack of self-discipline. The thing is – here I sit on a train about to head to Delhi for another busy week. I have slept maybe 2 hours. I will not be getting sleep anytime soon. I am tired but I am so used to pushing that down and out of the way that tiredness is now something that flickers at the edge of consciousness, waving feebly. My tiredness is too tired to make itself felt. I think the problem is that I opened a browser page and googled nausea+lack of sleep and ended up on a page that listed the symptoms of lack of sleep. I think it is a serious reality check when I can identify with about 22 of 33 listed symptoms – ranging from fairly regular to semi-regular. I think this is a problem.

I think blurred eyesight and common headaches and sometimes tremors in my hand are a problem. I think nausea and a weakened immune system and just general tiredness is a problem. I think the fact that my physical stamina for exercise – never great to begin with – is completely shot through. I think it’s a problem that I have vivid dreams that merge into lucid dreaming and it’s hard to tell the difference. I think it’s a problem that sometimes I have dreams that I try to wake myself out of and I can feel my body not moving because of course we are put into a paralysis by our minds when we sleep and lucid dreaming and fighting your brain in your sleep isn’t probably good for the normal processes of sleep. I think that sometimes I feel off balance (literally) because my ENT system is probably a bit effed up too is a problem. I think that I keep picking something fresh to be anxious about every few months is a problem. I think it’s a problem that my memory is a bit not great in the last few weeks and I have noticed my speech patterns being not super fluent all the time is a problem. I think that I feel exhausted and emotional and reactionary is a problem. I think that my skin is a bit pasty underneath the brownness of itself is a problem. I think it’s a problem that my blood sugar and cholesterol and blood pressure all veer towards the high end of normal. I think its a problem that my eyesight used to be perfect and is definitely getting a bit worse as we go along. I think it’s a problem I am almost scared of sleep sometimes. I think it’s a problem that occasional morbidity is something I am too familiar with now. I think it’s a problem that I can’t seem to find the energy or mental concentration to write long things anymore if they aren’t necessary, like essays. I think it’s a problem that I can’t seem to wake up to one single alarm I think it’s a problem that I am sometimes too tired for simple social interaction on social media. I think it’s a problem that I am too tired to return messages and mails and phone calls and do basic things that I need to keep putting off because I.Am.So.Tired. 

The good news is that these aren't horrifying, can’t be fixed issues. The bad news is that they could become that. The bad news is that they exist at all. The good news is that I can fix it. The bad news is I don’t know if I will. The good news is that I can see my flaws. The bad news is that I am not sure I won’t let them be till I keep on self-destructing in this most delicate and invisible of ways.

So why did I write all this down? Because I am a rational, very organized brain for all the chaos I create around me. Because if you have an enemy, even if (excuse my dramatics) the enemy is yourself, you need a battle plan. This is mine. This is a written, visceral reminder to myself about what lack of sleep is doing to me. Little by little. Every day. It’s encroaching on life. And there is nothing more I value than myself. Alive and well, preferably. So this is my battle plan. This is my blueprint of military strategies. This is my map of my strengths and weaknesses. And I am making this all public because, every military general needs accountability and second opinions and support and help in battle planning. This is how I conquer sleep. Thank you for your time.

So Where Does Delhi Live?

So where does Delhi live?

Where does the heart of Delhi,

The real heart, the true heart of Dilli

Begin to beat.

Where does Delhi live?

At 18, with all the brashness

Of someone who had lived in a bubble

Of neatly drawn lines

I thought Delhi, ‘my’ Delhi

Lived in the meanderings of Hauz Khas.

I said,

No. I proclaimed,

That Delhi lived in pockets of North Campus

And of course, Delhi Cantt

And the great circle of CP

At Janpath and maybe the odd mall in Noida

And in some malls down South

And in the opulence of GK markets –

They have really good kathi rolls,

Go try them out.  

At 18, I was desperate to belong securely

To a place. I never had.

So I made Delhi belong to me.

At least, I tried.

Every moment since

I have fiercely declared

My belonging.

At 22, I am secure in belonging

But insecure in the breadth of Delhi.

At 22, I see Delhi inching out, opening up, engulfing in.

It lives in Gurgaon now.

And a little bit in Paschim Vihar.

It lives in the cacophony of Kashmere Gate

And in the merciless sun outside Tihar.

It lives magnificently at the India Gate Hexagon

And it lives in Gali No 10, Prem Nagar –

I can find it now.

It lives on the blue line to Vaishali

And a little bit on the Green line

(I am still unsure where it goes)

At 18, I remember dancing in the deer garden

To Delhi Drum Circles

And thinking,

Surely this is where Delhi lives.

I see now,

That Delhi does live beyond Delhi Haat and that market

Opposite IIT.

But just like at 18,

At 22 I can still not tell you

Exactly where Delhi lives.

I can tell you however,

Where Delhi began.

It began when -

An 18 year old,

Fresh to Delhi,

Turned to her friends

And said,

‘It’s 7 pm and my first day here.

 I should go home’.

And they turned to her

With matching grins

And said,

‘Stay out a little longer’.  

Winter Edges

This winter
Has been a rather
Drugged affair,
Honey slow
Molasses thick
And snagging edges,
Catching and cutting.
This winter
I learnt
To flick Kohl
To create wing tips
Honed to razor edges.
This winter
I learnt
About the armories 
Of sharp eyebrows
And the defiant shield
Of jutting Kohl.
This winter
I broke myself
But left my heart in tact.
This winter
I picked up pieces
Of a girl
With hairline cracks
 She denied
All her life
And I broke her
To prove a point.
Then I remade her
With the perenniality
Of sardonic smiles
And perfect Kohl flicks
And recklessness.
This winter
I learnt
To love the winter
In more than just
A blurry, watercoloured way
I loved the winter
In harshness, bitterness
And cruel ice edges.
This winter,
I said, 'Devil may fucking care'
And I meant it.  

Hairspray Curls

If love came neatly
Done up in images
I would easily
Show you how I feel
Instead of all these
Fumbles and Tumbles
I put you through.


I would say-
'Ever since my blood
Leaked alphabet
On reams of paper
I have dreamt
Of a splash of black
Curls, On 1000 thread count
Sheets, White as light.
I have dreamt
Of shedding my
Worldly faces
After an evening
Of careful construction
And climbing in
Beside you
And your hairspray
Curls; The last remnants
Of the artifice
Of an artificial world.
I have dreamt
Of holding you tight
And murmuring,
How even hairspray curls
Smeared eye shadow
Smudged kohl
And washed out lip stick-
Building blocks
Of our worldly faces-
Look real and true
On you.'

That would be my
Image of love
For you
And your hairspray curls.

Omelettes- NaPoWriMo Poem 13

Written in honor of the various Omelettes made during the course of my Ireland trip. Also, for my general love of them. Inspired and addressed to my eternal muse, Emma. No, not you Nurdan. You know why.


'I could try
To juggle
These eggs'
I said.
Merely too see
The alarm
Flash through your eyes.
We are making
Omelettes today.
Omelettes mean
Privacy, my kitchen
And home.
This situation
Has none of the
Above ingredients
Needed for
The perfect
Omelette.
What we have is
Lachie's pursed up lips
Your calm eyes
My egg making skills
In a tiny kitchen
In a city
We don't belong to.
These are a new
Kind of omelettes
Of a new kind of
Friendship.
Lets put
Laidbackness
Moonshine laughter
Adventure
Comfort
And the odd cuddle in
To see
What these
Omelettes
Taste like.
A bit like us,
I suppose.
But not in a
Cannibalistic way

Hazy Nights - NaPoWriMo Poem 1

I am drowning
Melding, Blurring
Dazing
In the almost
Wanted burn
Of the night
Lost
In the burn,
The daze
The haze
Of it all,
I can
And I will
Fool myself
In believing
I belong
In this world
You call home.
Let the slow
Crawl of
An antique daze
Seep
Deep
In my veins
Let me sit
Apart
From it all
And write.
I will immortalize
You.
Young
Not innocent
Free-
- At least for now
Beautiful.
And so very much
In love
Or lust
Or just
Feeling
Far too much
It is youth
And you will
Live forever
Dancing
Laughing
Bitching
Beautiful
Seductive
Sad
Bitter
So very,
Young.
In my words
I will make you
Immortal.
Let me alone
Curled
In my corner
And I will
Write
You all
Burning brighter
Than sunshine
After a hazy
Dazy
Lazy
Night.
I am writing
You.
All of you.
Forever beautiful
Forever young
Forever,
Out of reach.

Shall We Begin?

Too little sleep, too much nagging, a lingering sense of guilt and a vague feeling of discontent- perfect recipe for a witching hour blog.

I don't really expect any one to read this- except perhaps the people I am going to write about. I have been a self proclaimed 'writer' from the wise old age of 10.  But this, here and now is the first time I have ever felt the tug to write about something- for an extended period of time, that is. To keep a chronicle as it were. Maybe it's the city, maybe it's the people around me and maybe it is a painfully cliche coming of age at Uni kind of a thing. I just feel, that if we ever to live to be old and bald - there should be a memory of us. Who we were and the wonder that was us. Or at least the wonder we thought we were.

I am writing about them, you see. And maybe I am writing about you. And maybe about me. Maybe I am writing to reconcile the maybes in my head.

This. Here. Now.

I am writing about some awfully big adventures. What else matters, but that?