The mirror of the night

Stuck in Time 

I don’t see the rising sun anymore

Nor do I see the setting sun

Love,

The breeze of morning, the drench of dew

Not anymore 

The cool of rain drops, the sweet of flowers 

Not anymore 

I’m dead inside : halted 

I know you are too

Dead inside : halted 

Stuck in time

Sun,rising, setting, you,me

Dew, raindrops, coffee,mornings,nights 

Not anymore

Poetry

Where is my poet !

One evening sitting by a window 

Sipping a black coffee watching the cold rain

I tried to scribd down the poem of my pain

In vain

Breathing softy as a wave would hit the sand 

I looked for my pain 

Like a cube of ice…once it was water 

My pain was frozen stuck inside a vein 

Where is my poet? 

Frozen inside my pain 

Prose

Soul by a brook and eglantines 

Have you ever known what it is like to have anxiety? Or depression? You think the constant pouring out of tears and the ache in the heart is anxiety or feeling uneasy before an exam? Or that feeling of insecurity towards life? No, anxiety is far more inexplicable and complexed and you hardly understand it yourself. 

After months of undergoing that stage of anxiety I write it down bravely,at last. My experience of anxiety or depression,or whatever unfortunate human experience that is. 

It was the month of Christmas, the office beautifully decorated with colourful wraths of plastic vine along the corridors,snowy white Christmas trees everywhere. It was that time of the year I had a long list of Christmas songs by Bonney-m and Michael Bubble were on my playlist. 

Later in the month I set out to my father’s birth house where all my cousins had gathered. It was that time of the year where the icy cold breeze runs through your skin and awakens you to an inexplicably sweet state of mind to embrace the Christmas Day.  Christmas hymns and decorations will in addition take you to your childhood where memories of such Christmas days are cherished.

Unfortunately it was not the case for me this year. However hard I tried to absorb happiness, I wasn’t happy,I wasn’t exited. The Christmas play list felt like a torture of mournful music. The colourful Christmas decorations annoyed me since they didn’t make the world ombré for me to hide in. All the darkest corridors of the roads were lit and didn’t let me dissolve with the darkness. 

More than everything I was feeling lonely. Among the hundreds of office mates,among the heap of work I had to do daily I was feeling empty. 

Whenever you are alone,there is this voice in your head which continuously talks to you. When you really express yourself verbally it’s the voice in your head that keeps talking and complain over the things you can’t voice. If you call this the subconscious,go ahead. 

I had lost the voice in my head. When I reached the shower after peeling off the fret of a busy day at midnight,it was dreadfully silent inside my head. No one talked to me back when I thought something. I would just say “hey, think something!” It never did. 

It never occurred to me that I wasn’t thinking at all. I just breathed and functioned but mentally something was absent. I also met with the bitter truth that I had lost interest in everything. Nothing could interest me. 

The deadliest thing was, my memories felt alien when I forcefully came across them. Myself in my own memories felt unrelated. My memories were like watching a movie and the girl in them wasn’t me. I never knew her. I never knew some people she used to know.  

My own memories scared me. 

I never cried though. 

I never told anyone. 

Until after some time I explained what I felt to my bestfriend who knew what I went through. She proposed counseling and believed some medicine would do. 

I never went there. I didn’t want to sound stupid I front of a total stranger and cry. I let myself heal by spending more time with family and writing my diary. 

I don’t know which cured me and brought my soul back to me. My soul had left me and habituated herself on an eglantine which had dewy vine and dwelled under a weeping willow tree by a brook. 

It was hard work to bring her back to my busy life and congested city where I am living. Yet I take a walk under the monsoon rains for a coffee shop and sit in silence whenever I can,or at least go to the folding shutter in the lunchroom which opens to the brine wind that sweeps through the ancient baira lake at the sunset to inhale the fading day and try to incorporate the beat of wondering clouds in my breath. 

 Just to make her happy. 

Prose

Hometown

My  hometown is where my home is,where my mother is,where my father is and where my sister comes to spend her weekend. Just like I do. I wasn’t born in my hometown. I was born in the next big town,in a big ladys’ hospital. My parents were living in a small house on a mountain when my mother was pregnant. She had come home when she was eight months pregnant with me.I was taken back to the home amongst mountains when I was just one month old. 

When I was one year old they came back home. To my home town. A small town just fifty metres away from the sea. I lived here until I was twenty one years old and i shifted to the capital of the country. And I am glad that I did. 

Now I come here once a week and spend my weekend. I go to the town which is small but comprises of half a dozen of buildings where you can buy anything you want to live comfortably. This town gets Sun baked by the evening. But also gets soothed by the marine breeze once the Sun is not that harsh upon it. 

“We need to go to the town. The festive season is nearby and the shops will be soon closed down for a couple of weeks” my mother tells me. 

So she goes to the market (along with comlaining myself). It is the hottest season of the year and I wear a knee length dress. I feel comfortable and kidish in it. 

Once we get down from the market,my mother rushes to the nearest shop and I follow her slouching. Two guys leaning to a car look at me and say “hi darling.!” 

Enraged,I stop and look at them. They look aghast at my unexpected reaction and slowly crawl back in to the car. 

I follow my mother into a grocery store where there are twenty or more varieties of rice and other grains along with all the necessary household items with big numbered discounts. 

An elderly,sunburnt woman enters the shop. Although she has enough space to reach the counter without harming me, she hits me with herself and carries herself ahead without even looking at me. 

I reach the furthest corner of the shop which is the safest. Then arrives a mother with a kid of most probably three years. She is dressed in a black leggin and a green t shirt which is in my opinion doesn’t look good in her. She is continuously complaining her mother about something and then she sees me,who is cornered and victimized just like her. Then she smiles with me, so do I. Then I make a pouting face and she does the same. While we are all smashed in the crowded shop her little head with extreme but soft curls brushes against my hand stopping my heart for a moment. For a young woman who is in a natural age of getting married and having a child,  the sentiments I get are totally justifiable. 

Once she has enough of the imitating game with me, she turns to her mother again and complains… “amma..I want to go home”

I naturally reach my mother and whisper “Ammi, I want to go home” in vain. 

In the evening when the Sun is setting from the nearby west coast of the country,  people in my home town are painted in orange sun rays. My grandmother used to call them “the sun rays of the dragon” 

I don’t seem to recall the faces of those who are painted with orange. Nor do most of them. People I know from my childhood have turned to shapes I don’t recognize anymore. May be I may have turned to a shape they can’t recognize too. 

They are walking on the road not very busily as I am used to see in the capital city. Some have stopped by the shop where hoppers are made and old friends who accidently meet are talking. 

Then several boys from the upper middle class who are better clad in clothes with lighter skin tones probably in the age of seventeen walk towards a gym while some others of the same age have gathered at a record bar.  

Our next destination is a supermarket which has the rest of what my mother wants. Since I remember we had run out of sanitary napkins I go to pick one. Being a busy girl who works for almost 12 hours a day, I haven’t had the oppertinity of noticing the latest brands and varieties of sanitory napkins that are in the market. Then a man passes me probably in an age of having a daughter who has the same requirement to buy them, stops and smiles at me. Smiles in a way I don’t understand. Not knowing whether I should be embarassed for the most natural thing that can happen to a girl or I should be feeling guilty for reaching for a product that is marked as taboo, I reach my mother again. 

“Ammi I want to go home” and think of a place that is nowhere.

Poetry

The Proud Man

​Proud is for women

For girls

For the beautiful 

And hardly for men

For men like you

Jaws tightened

Lips rounded

Eyes focused 

Voice commanding 

Handling the many things

Inside the studio

Never a smile 

When they forcefully 

Smile at me

Your eyes never look 

At me

They look 

Over me

The only one

Who never sees me

The proud, comely 

Man

Poetry

To that stupid guy

To that stupid guy

Who thought my smile

Few “good mornings” and

One dance meant love

To that stupid guy,

What made you think 

Behind my pretty smile 

Is someone you can love

To that stupid guy,

Why waste your time

Wondering around 

My neglctive eyes

To that stupid guy,

What made you think 

I have a heart that could 

Make you happy forever 

To that stupid guy,

I once loved someone 

Loved hard and lost myself 

In the darkness 

To that stupid guy,

Look away while you can

I might take your heart

And break it just for fun

To that stupid guy

Love someone human 

Someone who can love

I am not even a poet now