adieu - abortion poetry

Dear Pathetic Poetry,

This is me, your verse cheerleader, your ringmaster apologising for unnecessary morbidity. From when I scribbled you, half a decade ago; when i wept and howled three years ago after i wrote my final segment- i vowed to complete 10 briefs to my unwanted children.I am breaking my vow taken under the influence of a bribe--for more poetry awards, more popularity, more appreciation of young dashing intellect - it's a holly bally humbug and i want to say that to you. i will receive more awards but i don't think i can write this way again. apologies, for i have changed tracks... and i am giving u your final podium forever. i am paying my respects dear muses- stand by me.

To,

All my Unborn Children – 1

iI do not regret your absence.
In fact you wouldn’t have enjoyed the world I live in,
It has nothing much to offer.

My mother accused me once:
“See not what the society gives you,
See what you give to the society.”

I gave them,
My thoughts,
My feelings,
My difference,
My ideology.

I was expatriated,
As an illegitimate child
Of the Hindu society.

My mother blamed it
On the Uranus in my horoscope.

…It’s growing barren
On both sides of the fence.

So, babies feel blessed…
There isn’t much air to breath,
And contamination in the womb is frequent.

There is no space----
To stand,
Sit, or shit.

You grow with confused morals,
You could be in a global village,
With no sense of belonging at all.

You could be born with deformity,
If not physical, psychological or
Worst of all… if you think unalike.

I don’t want the shadow of the cypress
To befall on you.
I would not have preferred a bonsai either.

So I nipped it off in the root.

2

I have been wandering
To seek a different world than I see,
I have failed miserably.

I still hopelessly hope,
Beyond the unknown,
There might be a world,
Unperturbed, untainted, immaculate
By the virus of the subhuman.

I don’t have the courage
To tie you up
With umbilical ropes,
To let you suffer and long to die.

So I take a pill every day.
And see to it that
I bleed every month.

3

I am not sorry,
My dear little one,
I refuse to conceive you.

I am thinking of putting copper-T to use
Abortion is a fairly painful process you know!
And my pain lasts forever,

Accumulated in diaries, letters
And poems like these.

I am sparing you of this pain,
So do not anger.
I can’t be mute,
Therefore I am bitter.

4

I have conceived yet again.
My soul cries out,
My heart is numb
And my mind ignores.

I don’t hear their cries any more.

My children come prepared
To die before they are born.

They are sacrificed at the altar
Of their mother’s Ambition,
Freedom and Foolishness.

They pay a price for the love
That will never die
Because it was never born.

They avenge me through
Vipashana and Therapy.

I stole their life,
They are stealing my mind,

My infidel arse-hole unborns;

---------=+&^#@%*--------------

Fetters

(I)

I move with potential partners from season to season,
I find some promising:
The colour of his teeth nearly meets my crockery.
His voice sounds like the ticking of my antique Blackforest clock.
His hair as smooth as my apothecary table.

Your eyes are molten caramel, he says.
Your lips are pink as raw strawberry
Your skin as alluring as the frosted snow.
Your body as sinful as a sand dune.

They jabber and I fall asleep.

“I thought this one was going to last: (No jokes, truely... truely)
His eye colour matched my drapes quite seamlessly: it was like divine intervention!”

(II)

Why should I only love you?
Be tethered to the same arm?
-----You should be my Sunday man, instead.

The gong has rung!

Alzheimers died
day-before-yesterday night.

Mom says death never comes alone, it always comes in three's. It's especially true of her maternal family. I think the gong has rung in again. (This is one of those inexplicable beliefs that are born out of 'just happened'.) The last time my cousin uncle, maternal grandpa and then my maternal uncle died.

--------------The last death was a shock of sorts, youngest, most pampered, most spoilt and most successful of the sibling lot- he popped with a heart attack. (The fact that he smoked like a chimney and had a temper of Hulk doesn't count) As kids we used to make fun of his love life- he got married three times and none of his marriages were a success. I remember, one afternoon back from school, my mom was howling on the phone- it was my first experience to face an emotion muddled with fear, anger and hurt. My 1st mami had fled with her husband's driver. [Reflecting on that- he never owned a car after post that incident -- he just gave up on the vehicle.] Sasquatch was eight years old, when he died. And we like atypical kids were playing with the neighbour's parrot, unaware of the aftermath of what had happened.

---------------I had certain fascination for the last but one right-- touring the body covered with shroud and flowers around the city scape or to the funeral home. Every time a body passed; my mom, dad, every elder body in the house- stood in silence, prayed quietly. I saw that most people around me did the same, fights stopped that moment, palms were held together, fingers touched the forehead and chest in respect. That dead body was the focal point, center spot, the attention magnet.

-------------Before Halo died - Opinion died, now Alzheimers died. Opinion and Alzheimers were siblings. I wasn't close to any of them. Had a distinct dislike for Alzheimer's wife and kids. We met on occasions and touched every one's feet in respect, told them what i was doing in life, asked about their aches and hearing aids- listened patiently and smiled. Titanium balls has a large line of siblings, they have started to pop and current situation says one more to go before the the deaths halt. Who will it be? Beer Buddy, Titanium herself or will it be Quack-Quack?

--------------I know; even though 82, Titanium balls isn't going anywhere-- like the rest of us, God and Satan too are scared of her.

P.S. I have to go visit her this week, before it's late.

fashion: sleeves, cuts n colours

Sleeves, cuts and lenghths: Short kurtis, hosiary tops in boho, flower child loose style are in. Cuts are multi layered or two layered, plain contrasted by print. The Gaagra ghera with empire waistline and loose straights for dresses. Quarter balloon, ruched or cap sleeves are back (check Marchesa (NYfw)) Off shoulders, halters, tubes are out. What is interesting to watch is that the contrast sleeve effect is going to be big-- eg. (Visualise) Gold raw silk kurti with selective sequence embroidery in crimson, paired with creme silk chudidaar: the sleeves are likely to go crimson than gold ruched. And it looks amazing. This applies to the colour palate of fabrics as well. Ps. Pockets are in.

Fabrics n colours: Linen, Georgette, raw silk, khadi is here. Chiffon, cotton is out. Blacks, cobalt's, crimsons, fuchsias, grape, tungsten, magenta, saffron, gold, Hawaiian blue, berry purple IN. Exception is biscuit cream. The colour exudes class and can be teamed up with the above madness. Steel, silvers, whites, greys go at the back end of ur closet. Andy Warhol, Manish Arora, Donatella Vercace, Prada are in: get the picture? The same applies for ur denims n trousers. Capri's pave way for harem pants, denims and jeans can go funky, skirts reach knee length and thin stripe corduroy's are back where they belong (check out the Armani collection).

Fashion forecast- eye, neck, waistlines

Face: Nudes(be it lip gloss, balm, nuetral skin shades) go. Reds, crimsons and browns replace. Apart from cheek bone highlighters: everything is toned clean. Thick liners unconventional glitters will be season's high. Max-factor is not still in for the Indian eyes, honestly Ashiswarya Rai's eyelash volume looks disgusting in person, also smudge risk is high- instead try perfectionist by Lauder. What compensates the extra thick lashes are ur college blue, green and grey liners. The egyptian look carries from the eye to the neck lines.

Neck lines: Egyptian, classic 'V', deep semi-circles, boatnecks, flannel and lace are in. Mandarins' are not. Flaunt collarbones and cleavage but tit popping, butt cracks, visible bra belts are OUT. If necessay use of same colour bra with the strappy outfit, it works: eg. Double up a green boatneck with a green bra: let the straps show.
Clean necks are still in vogue, hence string of pearls apexes the class-cool list.

Waistlines: The best of the lot, designers are experimenting with a delirious high. My fav: Empire waistline is back and will stay, what will also retain is the low pubic balloon that may just go without a visible waistline.

Work v/s Time

I work in a publication house: there are times of the month when 'stress' and 'deadlines' sound euphemistic understatements to what we are going through. But as the mag hits the stands there is a lull: no real work, research- time, culling out ideas; basically a whole lot of time-pass. That week according to me is wasted on blogs, vogue, esquire, social networking sites, quizzla,etc: when i could do a whole lot of fun/quality things but nah! NO organisation believes in letting their employees be and i have come to terms with the same.

Something that was personal became universal in this week: two friends quit high paying jobs in one day one and on one loose thought. Randomly read three blogs about working; loving or hating it. Then i read
http://www.stevenmsmith.com/my-blogs/management/full-time-pay-for-half-time-work.html read it...

I agree and most of you will too. But the breed of human resource professionals don't. [i nurture few prejudices and amongst them is a nauseating hatred for HR. They are the firm's happy face to exploit you; negotiate your pay when u deserve more - bunch of hypocritical, good for nothing troublemakers, who waste every body's time in ridiculous discussions, tests, charts lectures etc... Like advertising, investment, insurance and credit cards: HR belongs in the category of con jobs.]

I know how much time i kill doing one piece: coz if i finish it in 2 hours what will i do for the rest of the day? HR is to blame!

Back to arbeiter angst-- my office HR rules changed; reporting time: 9am- 5:30pm. Post 9:15 - half day, post 1 pm-- absent. Pay will be cut if you come late or leave early. I have no issues with the arrangement; just a Q to all HR professionals: If u are going to cut every penny from the minuscule you pay, why don't you pay overtime?

When meeting deadlines -- nobody looks at the in-out time. People walk in at 8:30am and walk out at 10 pm and return by 9am: is that fair? What about when there are events and parties to network: why not compensate that?

How does time matter when it's the work that should?
I believe till you are doing your job- it shouldn't matter how/ where/when u do it. Loudmouth disagrees.
What do u think?

Writing is a Talent:

Almost the last of the lot, i wrote this one in a lit class discussing verse by Lanjewar: i sat there, arrogant, abusive -- just coz i had read the whole dammed book and no-one had a clue of which side the head popped.
After minutes of generic criticism from my prof on my generation: i decided to scribble,
---
Write a verse: Is the order.
Well, a laconic doggerel won’t do, my classmate asks?
She frowns, “write an epic, lazy bones”
She rants on the lethargy of my generation.

She asserts we write quartets,
I plead, 'I can’t rhyme to save my nine lives.'
She reads my blank verse and throws a verbal quill.
“What happened to poetic imagination, where are my poignant words?
Make your pages bleed…..blah blah blah. Don’t be sad. Be miserable!
Be Shelly, Milton, Eliot. Be Sylvia,” she cries.

I take up the challenge and write a verse,
I open with a vodka shot, and then smoke up pot…
I tell my friend I don’t hate life still. I don't feel pathetic enough.
I fine slit my skin and rub in charlie.
Filled with self- inflicted torture
And words stolen from the thesaurus:
I swing my stylistics rule book out of the window.
I tear my sleeves and dart my fingers on my laptop.
I forge unfathomable psychological tortures,
I make love and smother my lover; I rouse the gods and herald a plea.
I rush to Sybil and Delphi; I scream, evoke.
Hit the mattress!
I lose the war; I scribble an elegy in scurry.

I am trying to save my blood.
Absolute shock slaps across my face
Drags me into deranged plight.

My professor adores me, calls me a perfect literature student.
Emotionally volatile, addicted to pain and difficult to comprehend on paper.

My parents consult a therapist.

Lost and Won

I don't write verse anymore. It's been almost a year now that I wrote something the way I used to. I never rhymed, so that 'freedom' prevails. but i don't scribble anymore... that haunts me.

i don't do a whole lot of things: carry scrap books, kiss in public, drink obscene amounts of papaya juice, stare, smell, just sit (for god's sake), gorge on strawberries, watch movies for 12 hours straight without eating, or save animals from plight, cuddle them. i don't bring home sparrows, kittens, dogs, donkeys, calf, butterflies anymore. i haven't laughed like a lunatic in years, haven't cried over a book so bad (after 'like water for chocolate') that my mom thought i needed help. i haven't argued over something i believed in after Iser.

i had come to understand that the best part of literature was not in poetry or drama or autobiography; it was in literary criticism, in theories about reading and writing. They were like philosophies that applied to physics, economy, math, life, history, fashion, literature... theories that moved u into becoming you. That inspired and impressed it's emblem onto your soul.

Poetry is moving and heavily despotic; pain of sorts stirs every writer. And that melancholy in turn becomes you,"when u play the game long enough, the game takes over and plays you". if u disagree, pick up all the 'movers' in this world, see how they lived and died.

I know i will not end that way. i am not Achilles, who will barter all the happiness in this world for fictional immortality.

N. asked me once why i took lit? I told her coz i wanted to read. honestly I wanted to discover myself by moving into a cocoon of escapism, into the phantasmagoria of burnished realities, of unconnected myths: and find truth between sepia cast, moth smelling pages.

I found my truth in critical theories, clean pages and archetypal mythologies. I found them in multiple forms, in deconstructed syntax and when i embraced them I lost the art of grafting----

grafting Silvya's, Blake's, Wolf's, Albee's, Pinter's, Eliot's emotions with mine.

This gradual disassociation was unconscious; in the process i ended up choosing happiness over everything brutal. Who needs complex reality anyway, when you can create a universe of your own?

iPOD Bhajan

I have reiterated that we are in digital times. God, too has become mobile.Earlier there were audio bhajans; yesterday, i saw one that had taken the visual face. A video of some Astha/Sanskriti channel god-man; dancing in a trance like high on a krishna bhajan. [Irrespective of my first thought that he looked like a bihari/ U.P fraud]
What I found intriguing was-- the lady, listening to it and grooving to the rhythm of the bhajan: at 8 am in a super crowded, dark, humid, temperamental first class compartment.

Her trimmed hair gave her a professional 'regular' no fuss look. Her Salwar kameez without dupatta, gold ornaments, her savvy Baggit bag, the iPOD --completed the above-average, affable working class woman. Then why would she resort to obvious looking fraud god man singing a bhajan in karaoke? Can't she read a good book instead?

I am being judgemental; but something in me pinched with sarcasm when i saw her; fuck me: there was no place to sit, not enough air to breath and everyone standing had either their butts or their pubis in your face. [my innate fear is that someone is going to fart in my face someday- precisely why I take an empty train to work and walk in with the canteen boy].

She was enjoying in her trance state, intermittently checking up on stations; smiling at chatty, gossipy, dhokla nibbling women working in RBI.

Her composed gait unrested me, then it dawned that she had made her peace with all the brouhaha around her: she indeed had! And the 'hows' didn't matter at all.

Polka Dotted Memory

Selective is the word I like to use. I have a thread-like memory and I am unreasonably proud of it. Loud-mouth and Monarch have a photographic memory- they remember every single thing I said, wore, did! The latter uses it against me in an argument and the former doesn't. I live by convenient memories of people, places and experiences: it's a technique- if I like it, I keep it. What I don't like, goes- period.

There is a horrific drawback to these colourful specks of polka dots. The background of everything that is not there-- the islands becomes so arbitrary. 'x' thing in a person stays 'y' is excluded. Derrida would have argued and the lit freak in me would agree that everything is complete in itself and does not look outside to determine it's existence.

What happens to the fabric around? Who will weave that? Do mixed facts count as realities? Can choice come without a package? Is having the best moments as the only moments sinful? Why can't we only relish the delicious and garbage the bland? I don't have answers and frankly I ain't looking for any.

I love making and having collages around me precisely for this reason. They make a pretty picture- jumbled realities, torn parts that recollect the hollow in a page. Every piece was picked up over time and has found its place on a creme, burgundy, cobalt, turquoise or crimson hand-rolled paper. A secular Tibetan script art juxtaposing MTV's trance images.

Moreover they are my life: fancy, thought provoking and above all picture perfect!