rutbadar

Diverse or Distorted

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  • rutbadar 123w

    I feel an immense urge to live and die at the same time. I want to disappear like the morning mist disappears in the sun, but I also want to bloom like a young bud in the spring. I need someone to tell me which one to choose, make me stick to it.

    .

    Death has been looming around since quite some time,a stalker tracing my footsteps, ready to pounce any moment, life has also stuck around, like the loose change in my pocket, somedays it jingles, for I have collected too much change, other days it lays between the crevices if my sofa, stuck in the gaps between the cushion covers, hidden, but there.

    .

    Death is a friend at this point, I recognize its point, I recognize its footsteps. Death is a performer, it starts with light knocks on my door, then the light knocks turns into banging, taking in all the noise in the background, it is all there is, surrender to its will or get caught in its trance.

    Life is a backstage artist, it arranges all the props, makes all the actors stand on the marked 'X's', it's always there but often gets yelled at by the lead actor, for it didn't deliver that cold coffee at time, it cries in some backstage room, dabs a bit of makeup on the under eye and gets out, again. 

    Something tells me she's starting to hate this job and might crack under the pressure soon.

    .

    Life and death are always caught in a dialogue, sitting on two ends of a bare room. They're constantly having a debate, both making cogent arguments. I have delusioned myself into thinking I am the judge, I am having trouble deciding a clear winner.

    .

    Death is like a mother, it sings soft lullabies, coaxes me to close my eyes and drift into deep slumber. Life is like a mean Maths teacher, she keeps giving me difficult problems, challenging me to find solutions, something tells me life is a wicked teacher, for she has set me up to fail, out of syllabus questions, equations with too many variables. 

    I am really tired, my eyelids dropping but the mean teacher keeps yelling from time to time, making me snap back to reality, the classroom.

    .

    I really don't know if I am a weak student or is the subject just too hard. Why do we need finite answers, constants, can I not choose both?

    Solve equations while slowly yawning on my bench. Do I have to match the pace of other students who keep asking for extra sheets while I haven't even sharpened my pencil yet.

    .

    Let me maintain this illusion that I won't break the nib even before starting, let me hang in between, jumping from one side to other, till then please hold my hand, for I fear I might have forgotten how to draw the curve of those alphabets, for I haven't practiced in a while.
    ©rutbadar

    @mirakee

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    I feel an immense urge to live and die at the same time. I want to disappear like the morning mist disappears in the sun, but I also want to bloom like a young bud in the spring. I need someone to tell me which one to choose, make me stick to it.
    ©rutbadar

    (read caption.)

  • rutbadar 123w

    I look at the people who have passed through my life, created a symphony within my songs, I want to write them all poems, unposted letters. I wonder how long these poems would be, they don't read lengthy essays these days, emotions have to fit word limits, I should maybe draw them a painting, I am no painter, it will look like a caricature, so I will paint them one with my words. .
    .
    .
    Black ink staining the white paper, the scent of ink mixing with the smell of fresh pages, anecdotes that light up my heart will fill up the blank pages. Where shall I fit in the not so colorful parts into these poems? Maybe on the edges of the pages, footnotes, no one bothers to read, the book may turn into a volume, for I may add some lines within the word limit, about the kind stranger who smiled at me in the metro, with a cigarette hanging from his lips.
    .
    .
    I will tie the pages together with loose threads, for these poems would need editing at regular intervals, for 'my people' won't always be the same, mine to write about. I shall sell this book to a rusty library that no one visits for I fear my vocabulary might not contain the right jargon to imbibe the complexities of their character. This diary will yellow bit by bit under a pile of books, if somebody by chance opens it someday, he'll be welcomed by the words, "Somebody's someones who I want to save from the world and give to the world.
    ©rutbadar

  • rutbadar 123w

    I connect to you more in still pictures, in the polaroids I clicked of you while you were going through your day, with the hint of a sweat breaking on your forehead, due to the afternoon sun.
    The still frames make a lot more sense to me, for in that moment you dropped your chores,  obliged to my camera, posing to my whims, in that moment you were mine. That moment has been caught in two dimensions for eternity, I visit it from time to time, with a song that reminds me of you playing in the background. Time, not linear in that moment, for I exist in all realities, somewhere where your smile is mine to capture, someplace where your scorn is mine to keep, for now you have found my perfume distasteful.

    These pictures are souvenirs of a time that never existed, reminiscent of finite moments that have melted away under the harsh afternoon sun.

    Your smile, scorn my keepsakes, I have hidden the scorn in the back drawer of my cupboard, while your smile is framed on my study desk, reflecting possibilities and times, that never were, yet were.
    ©rutbadar

  • rutbadar 123w

    Chalna tu dheeme se, ki tere kadmu ki awaz na nikle,
    girebaan rakhna uncha, karna na jism ki numayish,
    dupatta odh na tu apne gird, ki kahi dikh na jaye sene ki unchayi,
    pehenna sade rang, ki chatkeele rang hai bulawa,
    karna na tu awaz buland, ki unchi awaz nai hai tera gehna,
    nazakat se uthana ungli, ki dekhne wale bohat hain,
    nazron ko tu rakhna neche, ki be-adaabi nahi ho skati tera fasana,
    sawal puch na kam, ki alfaaz mile hain gin ke tujhe,
    sirakne na dena apna dupatta, ki tera jism hai unki milkiyat,
    tera husn hai char dewari ka gulam, ki hai tu unki mohtaj.
    ©rutbadar

  • rutbadar 123w

    Modern Laila Majnu,

    Someone told me that the perfect couple is having a lover's spat, I expected pots and pans flying in opposite directions.
    So I ran with my binoculars to watch the drama unfold.
    There, I saw them sitting on opposite ends of the room, one with his head in his hands, other aggressively washing the dishes.
    I watch them intently, bitting my nails, she gets up boils a pot of coffee, his nose scrunches, this tells me he finds the smell of coffee nauseating. Instantly he gets up, turns the radio on maximum volume, she quickly wraps her hands around her ears, she hates loud music.
    She parades around with the pot of boiling coffee, he dances with the speakers blasting to full volume.
    I wonder how long they must have known each other to find the frequency that drives the other one mad. They keep going in circles.
    Next day she makes some tea for him, with a hint of elachi in it and he turns the radio down a notch with Jagjit playing in the background.
    I have seen them play out their routine, I should put my binoculars down, maybe I am prying. But I hope they continue, for this is the modern Laila Majnu. With the world busy in its own share of drama, modern Laila Majnu is trying to make it work with the limited skill set they possess.
    They should not stop trying, for the chai is not going to boil itself and the Jagjit CDs might rust if not played at regular intervals.
    ©rutbadar

  • rutbadar 151w

    Lately I have been thinking about the waves, the sand and the wind.
    Have you seen the clumped mess of sand the waves leaves behind?
    Have you noticed how free the sand becomes while mingling with the air?
    I think, is it something in the water or the air?
    Is there something in my environment or something within that makes me who I am.
    A mess of unshed tears, a butterfly with broken wings, a page torn from a diary.
    I have been searching for the answers, for if I get them, if I find the cause I might be able to fix me.
    Years have passed I sit on the sandy beach with sand all-over me I can't seem to find the answer for there is no answer.

    I am fallen leaf, a blooming flower.
    I am the free sand, the clumped mess.
    As for the question why am I like this?

    It doesn't matter, for I am what I am.

    ©rutbadar

  • rutbadar 170w

    It's exhausting living in a paradox.
    Constantly looking for connection, yet continuously shunning it.
    Dying to find someone's reflection in those tears, yet wiping them fast, as soon as a face creeps up, telling the same story.
    Driving down lanes, craving for travellers with the same stories, running away as they start to narrate theirs.
    Why does my misery needs to be special?
    It's existence, a widespread epidemic; this should be comforting, yet so unsettling.


    Shouting mine is insignificant.

    I have crawled into a shell now, reciting my story to a mirror, it doesn't shout back, "I have been there."

    It listens quietly, letting me be in my bubble, where my story is unique, my misery the worst.
    ©rutbadar

  • rutbadar 173w

    I have been lost for so long, don’t remember how I ended up in the middle of this road.
    Traffic zooming by from all directions, I should move, care for my life.
    Where are these cars going? I wonder.
    The speeding cars running away faster remind me to mind my own business, I wish they would stop, few words, on their way then they can go.

    This man in his red shinny car, off to his home, filled with laughter of his children or an empty house that echoes his shallow breaths. Does he pour himself a glass or does someone else fix it for him?

    The man walking on his feet, does he enjoy stretching his legs on the road, or did he just spend his last penny?

    The man rambling on his phone, does he love his job or is he stuck in a loop of fulfilling expectations. Will he get a hold of his own before the car reaches home?

    Woman with worn off sandals, does her husband see the smudged kohl in her eyes or is his gaze fixated on the television, shouting on the players, faced away from her?

    The child in ragged clothes, is he satisfied, he has less to care for or is he craving for things to crave for?

    The girl, was her tiffin fingerlicking good or did her mother forget it between the fights with her father?

    I wish I could gather them all.
    Ask few questions.

    Don’t care for their answers, just want to study the upward or downward tug of their lips.

    I wish someone would give me a lift, a small space in their car, don’t care for their home, just take me for a ride maybe, drop me somewhere, will find somebody new.
    But do they have the space or are their car doors jammed?
    ©rutbadar

  • rutbadar 179w

    The story of pain.

    Do I know what the date is today?
    Everything is hazy around me, the medicine cabinet is empty, but my pounding temples tell a different story.

    So will you forgive me, I was heavy today, full to the brim, will you kiss those lips, intertwine those fingers I shoved down my throat to unload myself. I am drinking those salty tears to turn my chapped lips in to luscious gardens for you to roll around.
    Will you sniff through my hair, for my perfume is masking the stink of my vomit.
    My throat might be sore but now I can speak now for my stomach is not crammed anymore.

    Do you remember those small crystal balls we used to fight about?
    Been playing with them lately, for the soft eyes you fell in love with are dried of all the tears, hard like those crystals. Will you look into them again, dive deep but wait there is no water left.
    Did you hear me shouting,” I am over my tragedies”? Rambling about the lessons they taught me, when will I move on? Has the pain been written into my DNA?

    I am flying yet my strings are attached to the ground where I bled.
    The golden sky must be soothing to you, to me it’s just a reminder of the sunsets I never saw, for I was locked in a room with no windows.

    I can’t hold the kiss for too long, for the air is limited. I want to inhale so deeply, my lungs might explode, the expanding and constricting a rhythm.
    Will you stop it?
    The stillness, the silence I want you to dance in it.

    You said you love those boundless birds, flapping their wings. I wish to be like them, is that a lie? Give me those wings, will I still be chained to an open cage fretting about the horizon.

    I am so unstable, you said, my soul is hitting hard against the hard exterior, you call the body, trying to poke a hole.
    Will you beat me, hammer me some more?
    Set me free.

    You said cutting is the lowest of one’s struggle, but what do I do, when my hands sweat at the sight of a blade? Knowing if I pick it, my hands would be too numb to draw on those slender pale arms or am I afraid, the blade will fit so perfectly, that I won’t stop till those veins are dry and empty......once again.
    So tell me would you love me or set me free??
    ©rutbadar

  • rutbadar 185w

    Will I remember?

    Shaking the pen vehemently, for the last drop of ink needs to kiss the nib, the cluttered mess in my head is starting to make sense, for days I was rambling, unable to understand a word.
    Finally a song is flowing through this tongue, the melody is unfamiliar but the lyrics, they resonate with something deep inside.
    Am I speaking too much again?
    I need a pen full of that dark ink, I want it to stain the pages blue and black, for I need to empty my mind, it needs to take rest, drift to a peaceful slumber.

    I searched violently through the room, a cluttered space in front of me.
    I can't find the pen, I am worn out now.

    I should sleep today, wake up tomorrow and paint these lyrics on a huge wall.
    But will I remember tommorow or will I wake groggy, forgetting this was not a dream?
    ©rutbadar