Learning how to breathe..

I have forgotten how to write

I think, and try to indulge in self-pity. 

I pause, and discard this thought in disgust

How can anyone forget how to breathe?

I chastise myself. 

So I dig deep .. reword.. 

I have forgotten what it feels to shape words that move me

Yes. That makes sense. 

What is it that I feel? A blip of happiness?

Yes! Look! I've already started the ascent.

Focus, Krithika! 

The bliss of weaving together words

That flow as easily as the river

That make me as incandescent as the fire

That hurts me without ever laying a hand on me

That blurs my five senses with happiness

Oh! I remember. I remember. I remember. 

But, Ah! The irony.

Such irony..

I can shape words that move me..

But I can't make you feel, 

the way my words make me feel

So I ask myself - what good a writer am I?

I pause, and discard this thought in disgust

How can you breathe for someone else?

The mind heartily agrees.. But the heart smirks: 

The fact that you can't do that,

Speaks for your ability as a person, not a writer

So try to become a better person..

You won't forget how to write then

-Getting back to writing, Krithika 

Why have we not asked these important questions?

Race, of a different kind

Shyam was getting impatient. The calming greenfield did nothing to alleviate his irritation. He only watched her from the corner of his eye.

She skipped thrice, stood at ease for less than a second, and immediately launched towards the cockpit of the airplane with two quick jumps. She quickly scooped up her prized possession and started the return trip.

With five quick jumps she was back to the tail end.

Level 9 done, she smirked, to no one in particular.

“Damn. No mistakes made,” her brother admitted grudgingly.

The two were playing hopscotch: The rules of the game were simple: throw a stone into one of the many boxes on the airplane-shaped play-field. Skip to the box, and get the stone back. You played until you strayed away from the boundaries.

For the longest time, Shyam was unbeaten in this game.

Only recently, had he carved out an airplane on the ground by digging large mud trenches in a greenfield. Because the ground was his, he considered himself a better and more dedicated player.

But today, Ramya seemed to be unstoppable. She had zoomed past 9 levels, blocking any and all chances for him to play.

So he simply faced away from her and started wandering to the other side of the plane. What you cant see, cant hurt you, he thought to himself.

In the meantime, Ramya had crossed yet another level! Crossing the 10^th level meant you had to start throwing the stone to the farthest end of the plane, blindfolded.  The farther you threw the more points you got.

She clamped her eyes shut, and lobbed the stone to the other end of the plane.

Splat!

Ow!

Arghh.

The multiple unpleasant sounds told her what had happened.

The stone had landed directly on her brother’s head, who at the time, was wandering on the field.

He lay there, arms splayed, teeth bloodied. 

He stared. She only turned away.

If speed was his talent, anticipating the future was hers. The two were the last remaining giants, left on the earth, with tons of time, and little to no work to do.

Even as Shyam got ready to claim his revenge, Ramya moved slightly to the left.

The stone landed a few feet away from her, and she smiled triumphantly.

She calmly lifted the stone, and proceeded to finish the 11^th level.

“No no no,” he came charging at her. “You are out. It’s my turn now,” he said.

She did not give in.

He tried to throw a punch at her, and she jumped to the next box.

“You landed in the middle of the field, you idiot, “ she shouted, as she skipped along. “Just as you are now. Now, move,” she said.

She was right.

“I hate you,” Shyam thought. “What cant you be like my other human friends? ..Weak and submissive,” he said aloud.

“Giants or humans..the rules of the game stays the same,” said Ramya. “Now move,” she commanded, as she went on to score a streak till the 15^th level.

Words

Let me play with you.

Let me coddle you, let me dress you up,

And proceed to rind you, down to the bones.

Dear Words, let me do all that and more to you.

Let me stitch you into beautiful carols,

Let me introduce you to the beautiful symphonies

And then shove you into the anguished cries of a broken child

Dear Words, you’ve made many lives.

You’ve also broken many hopes, and families.

And now, I’d like to return the favour.

Would you want to come over for dinner?

I’d feed you till you collapse from exhaustion

And make a shawarma out of you.

Or tea perhaps?

You know, I make great masala chai.

I’d serve you some and stuff you into the feather light croissant.

Dear Words, your species is heinous and vile.

You comfort one minute and scar the next.

You bring out the devil in me,

Unleash me in front of unsuspecting humans,

And I thoroughly I despise you for that.

So, I've decided to be a devil, that's faithful only to you.

And seduce you..

Seduce you.. until death can finally do us part.

Expectations

Expectations, they're are a curse.

There’s a reason why people ask you to dream big,

But, caution you, stop you, tell you to expect less.

Tread with care, it says, because the journey ahead could get rough.

But I don’t pay heed. I nurture my expectations like a boss.

How can I settle for less with a dream so big?

A few years later, I hear the echoes, in slow and rhythmic chant:

They’re a curse.. They’re a curse...Expectations are a curse.

And so, while I wait and work for it, they only go farther off.

Why are they such a mystery I wonder:

After all, the expectations are mine!

I birthed them, fed them, let them play with my dreams.

Now, all they have to do is come and embrace me. Make themselves a reality.

Instead they taunt. They poke. They make me wonder about their dimensions:

Am I not too high? Am I low?

Instead of just showing up, they further torment me, in hushed whispers:

If you lower me, aren’t you lowering your self-worth?

What will people think?

How will your face yourself when you’re 80?

With such questions they bring in confusion. Chaos. Sadness.

For every choice I make,

Be it a house, a car, or a partner, expectations come forth like disapproving uncles.

But weren’t these expectations mine?

I owned them. But now, somehow, I seemed to be disappointing them.

Amid long stretches of these heavy thoughts, comes one ephemeral strand of relief.

'Fuck the expectations. They are only in your head.

They are just the speed boosters to your vehicle.

Your vehicle is going to get to the destination, with or without the boosters.

You’ll get there.'

Fuck the expectations. Fuck the expectations.

Get to the destination. Get to the destination, I chant to myself.

Meanwhile, the slightly weakened tormenter continues its job.

And with every step comes the:

Poke. Taunt. Poke. Taunt. Poke.

Was that Poseidon?

The sea called out to me, roaring and vibrating with all the might of its blue energy. I took my time traversing the shore; enjoying every bit of it, before I finally looked at the vastness of nature before.

The waves lashed out against cliffs, almost in sync with the tunes of a guitarist, clad in white, an imposing figure pitched against the blue infinity that lay before him.

Broad –shouldered, and sporting a wide-brimmed hat, he sat a few steps away from one of the several medium-sized cliffs that dotted the shore. The cliffs protected him, but the waves reached out to him anyway.

Armed with a pen and a small notebook, he commandeered the unruly splashes, and synced his notes with them.

He then watched the waves for a full minute before jotting down something in his book.

The musical dance continued.

He wrote while the waves danced; and in turn he swayed to its sounds.  

Although I was close enough to see the duet, I was nowhere near to hearing the extraordinary exchange of thoughts.

I say extraordinary because I saw something that I've seen in very few people in the world.

After what seemed like a long time, he put his pen down.

 He lay down the guitar and its pick. Crinkling his eyes, puckering his lips, he watched the sea in amusement.

The sea roared, indignant and confused.

Exhaling deeply, he smiled for the briefest moments before putting his head down. After a split-second of hesitation, he jerked his head up and looked at the sea with uninhibited love--the kind of love whose existence is not tied to reciprocation or dependence.  It exists, simply, for itself. It’s selfless and selfish at the same time, and it’s beautiful.

Overcome by unbridled exhilaration he looked longingly at the sea. The sort of exhilaration that momentarily appears fills the ever-present void to the rim and goes on to heal a person.

The sea seemed to calm down for the briefest moments to acknowledge, before roaring away, letting the musician soak in the feeling and rejoice.

All the while, I had been edging silently toward the musician, afraid of intruding him in his most private moment.

I stopped a few feet away, at which time he picked up his instrument and played a joyous piece.

It was, needless to say, brilliant and I was hopelessly rooted to the spot, even after the piece was done. 

Sensing my presence, he turned, tipped his hat, and departed.  Just like that, leaving me to rewind and go over the entire exchange to this day, every single day, almost three years since it happened.

Now that I think of it, was that Poseidon?

When a City speaks

From the face of it, a city is not peaceful. It’s a health hazard. It’s maddening. It breeds and brings out a sub-species in us, a part of us that we never knew existed. Look deeply, and no, you don’t see anything different. Beyond a point, the madness only intensifies. 

But that doesn't mean a city’s bad. Far from it.

A city is a congregation- of souls, of buildings, of traditions, of weird sounds, of weirder habits, of tiny streets that snake through impossibly small areas, of a trillion industries- small and large. It’s a place divided into a million pieces, each watched by a million different souls, albeit for no more than a second.

A city, unlike any other place, does not speak to you. Not right away at least. A city demands patience. It says, respect me, only then shall you command respect from me.

It wasn't inherently this tough a taskmaster. It was something quaint and novel that people landed in; claimed for themselves and forever altered it beyond recognition.

It has its idiosyncrasies. It doesn't venture into conversations anymore. Through its endless transformation, it has evolved into a stubborn old creature. It grunts, snorts and wails every time it changes, which happens to be every other second. Sometimes it roars in pleasure, and the rest of the time, it simply bows to change, defeated yet again.

And this is why it doesn't indulge you, despite being unspeakably lonely, despite housing a million people. It doesn't initiate a bond with you. It doesn't allow you a second glance; it promptly sends a vehicle, a baby or your boss screaming your way, simply to distract you.

A city brings people in droves. And it drives them away in droves too.

It shoos you away, because one long look and you are etched in its memory, making farewell, all the more difficult.

It lives like an automaton most of its living time. Not looking, not feeling. But it does speak. Seldom does it speak. But when it does, it whispers, sometimes through those smoke-bearing winds, or through the bells in the temple, or through the sirens of industries. But speak it definitely does.

But it whispers only when it has deemed you fit, after watching you through those ever blinking traffic lights for at least a decade. Only when it is convinced that you have seen it long enough to believe that what you see is only part of the story. Only when you do not court it with disdain, but with patience and nostalgia does it let you in.

As a reward, it leads you to uncharted places that take your breath away; that remind you that life is more than you made out to be. It gives you newer perspectives, newer aspirations; it welcomes you in its home, lets you in on the secret cuisines, and tells you its story. 

That’s what a city is. Unless you connect to it, unless you find your own corner and appreciate it, the city will just let you be with your misconstrued notions of it, and will not bother to correct it.

It is a lonely and proud being. A lucky few get to see its nice side. You constantly speak ill of it, and it makes it harder for you to stay. It shows you a rougher, smellier and manic version of itself, masked in smoke and crushed dreams, and drives you away, so that it can exhale. A little more space, a little more place to stretch and make its existence bearable.

From deep within its automaton persona, the city watches you. It hears you. It judges you. Only then does it speak to you.

So the next time you exasperatedly quit a city, remember, neither have you lost a battle, nor has the city  won. It simply reflected the feelings you had for it, served you a custom-brewed dose your own perceptions.

PS--To all those cities that seem to be crumbling under its own weight, lend a little bit of courtesy, a little bit of gratefulness for giving you a livelihood. For otherwise you will simply strangling the poor city and with its, its precious story—its history.