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.
With empty hands and Half full hearts You ask me How is it that I always seem to Know where you are I tell you that I Don't need to follow You in cars, I know The havens you seek Out when it's night And wait in those Rooms whose doors You would inevitably Knock upon at Fifteen minutes to midnight.
You watch this life Pass you by, with half opened Hopes and colder skins Rain streaming down Windows and your thoughts Buried under your sins I catch the last Remnants of time And pour them In a cracked jar And we sit down Facing dust coated walls Watching them fight An invisible war.
I was never a tea lover. In fact, far from it. Always despised it's taste. Still, when you told me that you would share one with me, someday, on a breezy roof under a starry night at 2:00 am, and talk about all the good things that still exist in this bizzare world, it didn't matter that I didn't believe in 'somedays', or that I hated tea. It became a cherished dream. One that I was looking forward to live.
So now that you reside among the same stars that you had once promised to gaze at with me, I wonder if you know, that often at a random 2:00 am, when the sound of your voice makes it hard for me to sleep, and your warm smile haunts me everytime I close my eyes, I make myself a cup of tea. Low sugar, hard boiled, 'Irani chai', to be precise.
And I drink it on the roof. In hopes that one day, a star will twinkle letting me know that I finally got the recipe right.
And maybe, the moon will wink at me rejoicing the fulfilment of a yet another cherished dream.
It's 12 am. Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are? You are my newborn addiction. I'm high on you even in your absence. The aroma of your betrayal is still hanging in here like it's meant to be, isn't it? The surrealism of your beauty have me captivated; Left me feeling vulnerable and resilient, simultaneously. The cold and silent city of yours have watered my secrets and gulped them down its throat. The ghastly barbed creepers are now reaching out to me, trying to get me naked; Naked to the world outside you and yours.
It's 2 am already, Did I tell you how beautiful you are? The passing time might have made me forgot to tell you, but you are. Looming over our past, I reminisce about the bittersweet harmonies That has brought the autumn wind with it. Your goodbye lingers like a beautiful ugly grainy film melting with time. When I surf about a cure for my pain; It shows incurable. I wish I could find a stint of dream in this nightmare. I wish I could go back to be a virgin to this pain, and you.
Oh! Look it's 5 am in the morning and the Black coffee has given rise to the dawn, yet again. You and I, have once again spent the night discussing that unwilling vein. I wonder if your laughter will fill our tiny room or the music that has wrecked it?! I wonder if this day would pass with No sentiment, no thought, no actions or with memories, and feelings?! I can hear the storm coming, Risen from the deepest of my fears. I can feel the goosebumps exposing on my skin. I wish I could promise with eyes wide open, that, this is different. Alas! I can't. I just hope that our cold coffees will give rise to a beautiful twilight and a beautiful us, Someday.
Sexual and mental harassment has always been something I have wanted to speak about. But I am not anybody of consequence to do it to a large crowd or a large mass of people. So, I thought maybe, I can reach to a considerable number through mirakee.
Harassment and abuse doesn't see age, gender or anything. Regardless of being a boy or a girl, it can happen to any of us and it does. The monsters who look like humans nurture poison in their hearts and minds. They don't function like humans should do. And the victims are often quiet or scared or dead. And I don't blame any of them because telling a story like that, is never easy and it never will be. But remember, if you are a victim, and you're afraid that you don't have anyone that will actually care about what happened to you, then you're wrong. As much as there's evil in this world, there are also people who actually care. I care. And I know others too. I need you all to make yourselves better, by noticing the victims who hide their pain behind fake smiles and lies and helping them, genuinely, selflessly. Because I have promised myself, that I am going to do the same.
How hard that is to have twisted my mouth in this way? I'm a whore. That doesn't take much of effort. Does it? To me it doesn't seem that way.
I've seen passers by covering the "innocent" ears of their children to have heard the word "whore". But why? I can't understand. Is it vulgar?
It's a profession isn't it? I earn my food and life through it. What is so inhuman in this act?
I have brought my three year old daughter in this world. I am not shameful to tell her that I am unaware who her father is. Years later she'd ask me who I am for the world, and I won't be ashamed to say that I'm a whore. I'm a slut.
She'd ask me her last name; and I'd not attach a bunch of forty men who once let their shadows crawl over me. I'd tell her boldly, the truth I am not ashamed of, she doesn't have a father. Or rather she has, yet I am not aware of him.
They ask me, whose child she is. I say, "She's mine."
Who says I do it for a living? Taking off my apparel every night; not being afraid of having my dignity in a stranger's hands, I don't mind it. Can't I be doing it with my consent? What is wrong in this selling of my own flesh?
Do you own it? How dare you obligate my soul of being impure? Were you one among those to have scarred it forever? I think, you are.
And then, there are those who say, "She is vulnerable to her necessity. Don't call her a whore. That is not morale."
Oh, but that is who I am. Ain't I? At a peak of time, my necessities vanished forever. I stopped needing things a long time back. You can say; I want them now.
Bad habits never leave. But this, is my choice.
To live, is my choice. This skin, belongs to me. This consent, belongs to me. No man is born in this world to have practiced me for his own wish and lust.
For he too knows; a lioness hunts, and the lion feeds over her hunt; yet she doesn't need the lion to guard her. She has her claws, she has those jaws.
At least, I am responsible for who I am. At least I love what I do. At least, I am content with what I am. A whore, I am.
There were times I never wanted to have a hand raised around me, exploring sins I never committed. With broken teeth, limped legs, bruised thighs, sometimes, bleeding beds during those 28 days, I've smelled hell. With two souls planted inside me, yet me being the cause of their withering away, I've tasted hell. With the green leaflets of a wealthy peculiar odour being slapped over my face every morning, I've licked hell. With those constant dredgings by my "owners" to have sold my ovaries in a market, that isn't inhuman to you, I am, and so, I became hell one day.
Being fossilised over those new pillows everyday, I've hardened to where I am being tied. Tied to ocean piers, tied to deadly stares, those questions rising at me. I have hardened and moulded myself.
"Her body is bruised, yet her soul is untouched." How dare you fight for me with these words? I'm rotten inside. Once, twice, thrice a hundred times, I've fallen in love with those cold bedsheets. I've fallen for those mirrors and lipsticks and smudges of yesternight's memories. I've fallen in love with a star; and only one star, that one, which brightens the sky the most to blue, to end my nights. The sun. I'm in love with it.
I'm drunken over those seven rings those seven men left over for me, blue for my bruises, red for my eyes, yellow for my taste, green for my vengeance, platinum for my daughter, hazel for my cologne, black for me and my poisonous touch.
A man once promised me to have brought me back to life from the death I've been in yet I believe he too realised, as I did, I'm already alive.
Those mature women by the end of the lane whisper "things" about my heels; my lips red from trauma, about my hair turned messy over my shoulders; my nails with paints colourful and incomplete, my drunken silk robes, about my movements from tip to toe. The depth of my apparel over this bust I carry around.
Oh, I haven't even had any man examine me so inappropriately; than these eyes. And then I say, "Honey, at least I can still bleed my beds, no?"
Those youngsters and freaks whistling songs over every step I take, smoking smoke over my abated face, sharing cigarettes with my lips, they say, the sweat takes over them, yet then, they don't yet know how boiling death can be to have engulfed them inside it. I, walk on.
Those dogs bark at me in the middle of the night, yet a stare at them does make them quiet. A stare, makes dogs quiet. That, would be a new trick, I'd have to learn and execute professionally.
I walk down my roads and daggers do lay in front of me yet walking over them doesn't hurt anymore. You see, they say I'm heartless and inhuman, I'm a whore. A hell you don't want to have died into.
But the evenings in the train always made me feel like I'm going away from everything. Away from home, away from my people. And today, it just seemed like an elastic effect. Coming so close and falling apart with a sudden gush. Sometimes, the best and worst moments of life coincide, don't they? I've never felt like crying while looking at these running silhouettes outside this window, painted in black, before .
It's like a home in here. The little compartments with strangers everywhere. Sometimes we smile, and sometimes their little kids be the reasons to start the conversations with. Conversations slightly turning into a familiarity and ending up having life conversations and dinner in this moving house together. I've always loved smiling at them, the strangers in the train. And bidding goodbyes with a slight ache to leave.
Ah! Time passes by, isn't it? When we talk about all these favourite stories of our lives. So while I was sitting here wondering what went wrong, just numb, stumbled over the goodbye which I knew I would never be able to say hello to, my heart went scattering my pieces at every station we passed by. No one around to talk to. No one around to know how wildly I wanted to fly away from this window and never return back anywhere anymore. But the calm in me kissed my frowned heart and fed my loneliness with Nothing. Literally nothing.. For the first time, I felt how it was to be like to jump from a pitch and never land anywhere.
"Atleast today, when we are all together, talk to us idiot ", my friends had a way to tease without figuring out what's wrong. All I could do is just smile and listen them sing. " "Pardon, I have not known these hindi songs to sing together ", I excused myself and sat near the window again. The mountains passed, the trees did too. The rivers swirled for awhile and they passed too. Everything was just passing by making me paint out his face in these silhouettes of darkness. The winds blew his name. The dark sky was infinite and so was our story. The giggles, the love, the kisses and the goodbye haunted my night.
Some wise men said, the journey of train is like letting go of all these mesmerizing things we look outside the window. Little did they know, we return back from the same route and pass by everything once again. Maybe more than once. So how shall these Windows won't show the same old face and how shall that one seat won't echo my cries in the midnight and how shall this will all end?
Life is a journey too. And we will stumble on the things which had our hearts tucked perfectly. Let it to be slightly cracked. Somewhere, we stumble on the things which have left us half to make us whole again.