THAT WHICH GOES UNSAID...

In nights like this, when heavy rain lashes this city from a depression in Bay of Bengal which was earlier a cyclone... I am busy trying to work my life out. But the sounds of rain at night only get me back to that one late summer night. Intoxicated by the spirit of our eyes, We had just returned to your room. Cosied into your never done bed We clasped our hands and tangled up. Something inside me stopped me. I was scared. My pre-conceived ideas swarmed in my sleepy head with the spirit. We fell asleep. We tried to behave normal morning after. But nothing was ever normal after. We were slowly falling in love. Was it only me? You thought I don't remember after the spirit moved out of me. I remember, I still remember. The affection of your eyes-- and your innocent laughter. .that is the best memory I have of you. The day I left, I had fallen asleep to your laughter at some mindless TV comedy. That for me was the idea of home. And of waking up to a dog ...

All of my cells wanted to love you With all the strength l have... Like I did never before. Some of my cells were scared That you would love me Like none before you .. And then would leave ... So you did.

Walk bare foot In a park. Have tea. Try different types. Green, Red And of course white. Morning paper, watered plants. Sticky notes. Neatly arranged. One crooked. Hum Songs. Long showers. Movies. That make you cry. Memories. That make you smile. And be sad.. a little. Piano lessons. Someday. Own Studio. Colour all over. Diaries… some pain. Write letters. Books, Wednesday evenings. Pastry, Sunday afternoons. Solo breakfast.. Saturday morning. Rains and window stares. Transparent cups and tea leaves Floating. Slow pop. Dance alone. Love. Kiss. Love till the other loves. Love when they leave. But don’t hold on. Believe. Call over friends. Read them stories. And serve them tea. Some cookies. Write. Pack your bags, travel. Near. Far. Within. Without. Solo. With people. Love. Hate. But never show. Cigarettes when you write. Write. Write. Write.

to exist             without acknowledging what existed                           love without being loved back                                  to behave that there is no wound

our lives are but recurrences of our memories and our memories are the future of thoughts and events and touches that we refuse to let go. that we refuse to bury under a heap of dirt. And even if we do, we plant a sapling. We say we know it's not gonna live.. but we water it every day.. and we are wary of the birds that pluck at it. We are wary of strangers that might trample it... And when on a sunny morning, a yellow flower blooms we relive the pain of what was buried.

In those days when we were in the process of breaking everything that we had built together: of deconstructing each line we had carefully woven into poems, of whitewashing the walls where pictures of roads had been painted, you had given me a diary, along with your whims. What made you choose that diary I wonder. Was it that I wrote profusely and I could write anything that I wanted? Or Was it that you knew that the end was near And you wanted me to drain myself of you into those pages? I never would know what could have been, Had I held on to you as you did... Maybe our tortured souls wouldn't have made into these pages...maybe the blood of our souls that stains our hands, would have throbbed our hearts, as we grasped each other tight.

The wars have been waged. A bomb fell the other day on my rooftop. Nothing much was destroyed, except the flower pot that bore the last rose of the season, and of course the room beneath it. Why did I say nothing was destroyed?? A room, a big room was grounded to dust. As I stood in front of that half shell of a room, I saw how little I had sufficed myself with. There was a bed, few clothes, a water jar and a series of empty shelfs. Except one. Where I kept all the love letters given to me by all my past lovers. and all the letters that I could have posted to one of them. And I value both. They didn't let me take the letters."You better forget those letters and them. Run for your life." I turned to go back. Some rose petals lay scattered. The last of the season. The last you planted for me. Amidst the dust.