Red

Forced to be your one and only
Your one and only one
Nursed a little artery to grow
Into a heart
You waited, you waited
You gave of yourself but
It was nothing
You waited for your one and only

Craving my voice my mirror my
Painted autumn sun dance
Waited for you to teach me
How it was done
But you gave of yourself
Too much, the perfect one
She was always the victim
Always the wronged one

Remember, remember those
Golden days when told
You were beautiful you turned
A bitter cold empty heart
To your only artery
What of it? You said,
What of it?

The perfect one,
She was always the victim
The wronged one
Gave too much of herself
And her beauty
What of it, she said
And her bitter cold heart
Watched her only artery
Turn blue and red and blue
Again

It’s turning red again,
Perfect one
On my knees I beg you
Forgive, be your one and only one
Waited for your reward your only salvation
Nothing comes of nothing
Your lesson is right here

Watch me walk away
Head high, no guilt
For being my one and only one.

.

Today I went scampering off in the rain to look for a room of my own. I can picture waking up there, a place that is not here, not a corner of this room or a corner of this mind -- not cobwebby or cluttered, but a cherished space.

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The more I think about it, the more I realize how the poetry I've come across seems to be representing such extreme expressions. It can't be mild after all; there's no middle ground, there's no warm and cool, is there? The poems aren't always intensely serious, in fact some are intensely funny or intensely sarcastic, but intense they are.

I wonder what this does to a poet's mind. Does he never wish to turn this intensity off, this constant buzz in his mind, this constant ache, this constant high? Does this have something to say about the intrinsic nature of the poet?

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So many people I meet are so intelligent. Then they stun me with their lack of compassion. Makes me want to re-evaluate the whole concept of intelligence. How can someone alert and aware, by that very nature, lack the sensitivity to be compassionate? It seems like such a contradiction.

More than anything I am ashamed of my own lack of compassion. Makes me want to re-evaluate my own evaluation of these stunning people.

A Word

A word to the wise
go home, someone is waiting for you
someone sleeping in a dark corner of a dim room
with the lights off that never come back on
in shackles like ivy, like fragrant flowers

go home, beware
brush the snowflakes off your hair
it is impolite to flush red, to shine
at a funeral -- go home, someone is waiting for you

a word to the wise.
hush,
tiptoe to the end of your rainbow
someone blind to the colours is waiting
underneath it and will not understand
in that black night the twinkle
of your faded star

go home, remember someone is waiting for you
head down, chip up, hush, tiptoe, no rainbow
someone is waiting with a whip and shackles
as loved as smooth as silk
the slightest touch could change things forever
a word to the wise

a word to the wise
don't let the dark close in
on your own mind -- keep the rainbow
keep the shine from the snowflake
keep the twinkling stars and
the endless sky
hush, don't cry, bide your time
go home now
someone is waiting for you.

a word to the wise.

Longing

It’s amazing what thirty-odd days and nights in a row can do to a person.

I feel trapped in this place more than ever, now that I’m back. Every second, every cell in my body is longing in a way that chokes me, holds back every positive impulse I have, makes me pine, pine, pine. I miss the anonymity, I miss the freedom, I miss the absence of pettiness and smallness and gossip, I miss the streets, I miss my balcony, I miss chilli omelette in the mornings, I miss the Causeway, I miss going to work and the trains and the walks and the mad way my best friend smokes and drives, I miss everything. I miss never having the time to blog properly, I miss the sound of the sea and Byculla Zoo and Breach Candy and Andheri and Fort and Town and Theobroma and the beautiful buildings and the beautiful people and the ugly buildings and the ugly people.

Most of all, I miss the sense of infinite possibilities. This place has a way of holding you back, making you small, dragging you back into filth and mud no matter how hard you struggle to wash yourself clean.

I want to run back to the rains. I want to throw my head back and laugh until it hurts. I want to sleep on time and eat my breakfast everyday. I want Moshe’s jam and Churchgate station and apple crumble pie and chatni sandwiches that cost ten rupees, I want to hunt for a pretty dress to wear on an evening out, I want to come back home and find sweet little notes written just for me, I want those fucking frustrating bus routes where the drivers don’t shout out their destinations, I want to break every bloody glass he ever owned, but I want to go back. Run back, as fast as my legs will carry me. I want to meet every stray kitten that roams the fish markets at Lower Parel, I want to float on my back at the pool at Cavala, I want to hold hands with the girls and jump over big waves at the beach, I want to wear my blue bikini and walk like I’m not ashamed, I want to wear my red skirt and dance with him to the live Saturday night band, I want him to turn his back to me and say Jeg elsker deg in his half asleep way, I want that little flat high up on Bandra and the couple that fights like they love each other and our little glasses of wine, I want my laughing best friend to push me back into a crowd of vicious women boarding the local train, I want Marine Drive and the horrible crowds at Nariman Point on Sunday, and every fucking frustrating beautiful infuriating thing about that place.

I want Bombay.