Skip to main content

Twisted

Every time I am with her, I am reminded of a Neruda: "I loved her, and sometimes, she loved me too."

Every now and then, from the random chaos of everyday living rises a warped relationship that is funny and entropic. I love her, and sometimes, she loves me too. Every time I hold her close to me, she melts into herself, rarely have I felt her melt into me. Those proud threaded brows, with their perfumed winged lashes flutter in random anticipation of a kiss, but those eyes don't talk to my eyes, they seem to be in deep conversation, with themselves. I know her favorite dress, I know her special days, I know her fears, her dreams, most of her desires. She knows where I live, she knows what I do, not sure if she knows my middle name. She knows I have a niece, not sure if she knows about the nephew.

Many years ago when I was frantically searching for a copy of Dr. Zhivago, I remember what our librarian Thomas sir told me, R, where these books go and hide, is a mystery. When it is time for you to make friends with a Pasternak, Dr. Zhivago will come in search of you. Until then, there are so many other yarns to weave.

I loved her. Sometime she loved me too.

Comments

  1. This reminds me of all the dysfunctional relations I have witnessed. This makes me shudder.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Summarized brilliantly in two simple sentences. Thank you R.

      Delete
    2. This is so beautifully written.

      Delete
  2. Books have a karma of their own. It's strange how books find their way to me...or how a particular passage can be so comforting right when I need it...like a blog can resonate with so much that's going inside my head.
    It's twisted, no doubt...but then normal life would be so boring...isn't it?

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Clarity

I have looked at myself
From the edges of reason
And discovered
That both my sanity and insanity
Springs forth like seasons
Out of my distances from you. Realizing thus
I have allowed the outer rims
Of my diffused sanity
To fritter away into crumbs
Of misplaced memories
From my time with you. I have often found myself being unreasonable
When I am away from you.
And generally insane
When otherwise.

Long Winter Chill

If I could do a Neruda,
You would have smelt of summer roses
And Autumn pine.
There would have been sheer love
Of the kind that causes our hearts to ache
And loneliness bordering the divine.
You would have had so many secrets
Welling up as in a girly giggle
And so few friends who would hear them all.I am no Neruda
I can't paint you a Summer breeze
Amidst this long winter chill.

अबकी होली

इन रंगों में वो रंग कहाँ
ये रंग नहीं, है फीका पानी
जो स्वाद थी तुम्हारी
भरी इस ज़िन्दगी में
जो तुम नहीं
तो वो स्वाद नहीं।सुनो प्रेयसी
थी अबीर जो सिंदूरी
उड़ गयी शायद
बीतते वक़्त की आंधी में।लो आज फिर जो आयी है होली
एक चुटकी तुम अपने हाथों से
वो लाल हरी चूड़ियां की खनखन से
उड़ा देना दखिन की ओर
और रंगरेज मेरे इन रंगों को
फिर घोल देना बहती झरनों में
और ले आना मेरे आँगन में
फिर से एक ऐसी होली
जिसमे रंग हो उसके गुलाल की सिन्दूरी
जिससे कम हो जाये
फिर हमारे दिलों की ये दूरी।