Life in Boxes

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8th July 2019

Life in boxes

one house to another

Life in boxes

One home to another

Some stuff were broken

Some things were abandoned

Somethings we acquired new

But I was me and you were you

Life in boxes

One house to another

Life in boxes

One home to another

Where are my books?

Where is that yellow pan?

My diary, my pen – there they are

But something’s missing, where you are?

This one thing is not here

This one thing is not found

This one thing, I need, I must,

This one thing got lost in the round

Life in boxes

one house to another

Life in boxes

One home to another

Where is that boo to my bibiddi bobidi?

Where is that thing that turns my key?

Where is that?

Where is that?

It’s in a box

Wrapped in bubble

Travelling the abyss of time

Time travellers. Ahoy!

The way my Dad fusses over me

19th June 2016

Well someone recently said a statement, which had a few words in it like “The way your dad fusses over you…” – and I interrupted them right then and there and diverted the topic to other avenues. I didn’t want to defend my dad’s behavior or want someone judging him. I didn’t expect anyone to understand it. I can’t expect anyone else to even feel 1% of the love my dad feels for me. Nor anyone can.

I just delivered 2 babies, together, 4 months ago. Before delivery and after delivery I was fortunate to live some days with dad and mom together, after marriage (8 long years) and then some few days with dad, after mom left for the long ashram stint. And you know what, it felt wonderful to be cared for (for a change).

Papa probably never realized as I continued being my old rotten self with him, as usual (I have a problem expressing love to people especially very close to me). But every time he asked me what I wanted, what I desired and went to places to get stuff, just for me – it welled me up. If he even got a hint that there was this one thing I liked, he made sure the stock was never over in the house. Eg. I had to have protein powder in milk that tasted really bad and he made sure that there were strawberries in the fridge always to help me love the milk.  Simple things like that. Who does that for anyone, nowadays? Certainly no one had done that for me in a long long time.

Sometimes and maybe nearly always as a woman in this country, especially after marriage you’re expected to be the primary caregiver. To elders and youngsters alike. You learn through a series of experiences that small little delights of life that you savoured you’ll need to provide for yourself or give up cause no one will go out of the way for you. No one will. Even if you ask for it, mostly you’ll hear it’s out of their way. So why ask for it? – Do I sound cynical?

It’ll be extremely rare if someone is even considerate enough to look at you from the perspective of a living being, who could need love, understanding and pampering too. And when a someone sees, just their empathy will be enough. As they’ll understand you from a look of ‘being there’ themselves and maybe disburse a few sentences of advice to deal with the world, very precious sentences, sometimes.

No one will put you before himself. No one will invest their life’s savings to give you security. No one will sacrifice his own joys for yours. No one will save the best for you. No one will do things outside his comfort zone to give relief to the tired you. No one will try do without important things for himself to indulge in luxuries for you. No one will be there, really be there in a way of standing there beside you and holding you when you’re going weak. Except Papa.

Thank you Papa for making tea in my house for my guests when I had too much too handle (I know you’ve never done that for anyone before). Thank you Papa for the strawberries, the protein rossogolas, the wheat crakers and other little things you got for me to eat, when I was allowed very few things.  Thank you Papa for coming to Gurgaon in my last few pregnancy days so that there’s someone to drive me to the hospital, if need be. Thank you Papa for leaving your work and running to hold my babies when they cried, every single time. Thank you Papa for thinking about me. Thank you Papa for doing everything you can to make me happy. Thank you Papa for finding happiness in my happiness. Thank you, Papa for things I never thanked you for or ever will.

I love you and thank my stars for showing me this kinda love in my lifetime.

And I respect you all the more, cause despite all you’ve done for me you’ve never told me, “See, this is what I’ve done for you”. You’ve never expected a ‘Thank You’. You’ve never expected anything in fact.

Nor have I ever done anything.

I will probably never even show you this post. I'm that bad. 

In a moment of peace

12th June 2016

One is sleeping

            oblivious to the world

            hands spread out, palms open

            receiving the knowledge of the ancient masters

            understanding the world

            in deep meditation

            in sleep meditation

            digesting the day, today.

Two looked here

            smiled at me

and then looked away

she’s listen to music

Indian classical ragas

having a conversation with the ustads

aa aa aa aaa aaaa…

was that an alap?

Three put her paw on the pad

            she’s asking me,  “what are you doing?

            what could be more important than looking into my pretty pretty eyes?”

            the vain one

she knows

            she’s the prettiest beagle in town

            the lively one with the wagging tail

            she knows

            Mumma loves Best!

How do I go home?

18th January 2015

Why does it happen still?
After all these years?
The weirdness creeps in.
And the world spins.

You don't know which road to take.
How will you go home?
What is home?
Where is home?

In Calcutta?
In Delhi?
In Hyderbad?
In Mumbai?
In all the houses I've lived in?
Where all my loved ones live?
My mom's house?
Where my brother lives?
Where my beloved grew up?
Where my love resides?

Is it where I breathe the lightest?
In his arms?
In the pause in a poem?
In a tune's smile?

In me?
A place?
A place which is eternal.
Where I've often paused and rested awhile.

In all the lives I've lived?
Is it the body in which my soul lives?
Is it in a shelf in outer space?

I'm confused.
I wanna go home.
Where is it?

let’s fly back home

30th December '13

let’s fly back home, it’s been a while

let’s fly back home, it’s been a while

there’s dust on the frames

there’s dust on the sill

there’s a thick layer lying still

let me get the rags…………

let’s fly back home, it’s been a while

let’s fly back home, it’s been a while

the bed is soft and crinkly too

just the way I like

the window opens to the branches green 

the sounds, the chirps await

the swing is empty so I’ll get the book

and a cuppa to warm…….

let’s fly back home, it’s been a while

let’s fly back home, it’s been a while

mixed feelings flood as I fly back home

there’s doom, there’s love, there’s happiness

mixed thoughts are muddled in the head

joy, fatigue and “I dunnos”

let’s fly back home, it’s been a while

let’s fly back home, it’s been a while

let’s fly back home

On a swing in the dark with a glass of wine

Seated on suspended ropes
I hang mid air
Swinging in all directions
Not touching
But too close to the ground

Drops drops everywhere
White glistening sparkling ones
They drench my dress
Oh the stench
Such a scent

The silent shadow holds the ropes
The swinging continues
It's a play of light
Not real
It looms anyway
Raising hope

Shadow's waiting
Seated away
There but not there yet

Swinging continues
Up up up in the air

2 minute blogpost

19th March 2010

I decided to write today, for my blog. Thought I’ll post something…don’t need a huge gap. So I’ll write whatever I can in 2 minutes. And here I am.

Here I am. This is me. Lalalala lala la la la la..

It’s weird getting home after a long gap.

It’s fun meeting someone after a long gap.

It’s a long gap that makes a bridge.

It’s a long gap that makes a hero.

Time flies without wings with a ticktock band.

Pigs can’t fly, then how the swine flu? (kaheen se maara hai shayad)

splintered sentiments about one's home

19th January '10

It’s a weird mixed feeling about ‘home’ in my head (mainly it’s the heart, I guess).

I don’t know where my real home is, anymore! At least I don’t have it in total anywhere. It’s fragmented and is all over the place.

I get a little feel of it as I open the door to our apartment of some months. I get a little feel of it when I sip the morning tea, prepared exactly (almost) as always.
I get a little feel of it when I know exactly where to put what, and where what is.
I get a little feel of it when I lie in his arms and lull into sleep. And then it seems almost complete.

But I also call Cal my home, where now I don’t live anymore.
It’s I guess a sense of familiarity, knowing where what is, there which makes it home.
It’s also a sense of tuning into a system consciously and unconsciously, over the years.
It’s also a sense of belonging to a city, so full of friends, family and closed ones. Not to forget the memories contained in every fore.

It’s also home where my mommy lives. It’s also home where my daddy lives. It’s also home where I grew up with my bro. It’s also home, where my wedded lived his growing years. It’s also home in all those places where some months I lived before. And in many ways it’s also not home there.

It’s home now where I live with my mate. But somehow, the feeling of toto seems to be fragmented and strewn about everywhere.

They say home is where the heart is. But my heart is in so many places, with so many people and so many memories.