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These lights I light for you, this mehndi I apply for you
O Stranger, this life I live for you

The light has extinguished, the mehndi has faded
O Stranger, I have languished - you have not returned

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The dreams I hate the most are the ones in which I either run away from people who want to hurtmeharmmekillme or I run around looking for peopleplacesbuildingsfaces. Actually, I don’t hate them per se; I just don’t like them.

Then, there are the dreams in which I am running down flights after flights of stairs. In those dreams, I am usually in a rush to get somewhere. I speed down those stairs so fast it almost seem like I’m flittingfloatingflying. I hang on to the handrail real tight in my mad rush, and leap off from the third last step, flinging myself a hundred-eighty around to the next flight of stairs.

Never once in my dreams have I found whowhatwhere I’m looking for.

My dreams reflect my life.

My hobby is tracingtracking and unearthinguncovering. I do it at flea markets and old shops in old neighborhoods, but mostly at flea markets because I can haggle. It’s important that I be able to bargain; it’s not how much I’m willing to pay, it’s how little they are willing to sell.

I love old items - items with their own histories and pasts. At flea markets, I buy only things that are cast-offhand-me-downused; I have no use for the newunused ones - I’m not particularly fond of those. With nopastnohistory, they lack personalitycharmallure.

If you put it all together, then I’m an open book.

I’m obsessed with purchasing histories and pasts - cheap histories and pasts - because I have none of my own.

fear

fear
must be why you disappear inside
your labyrinth of ambiguous lexicon
   & clever word-play
& try to lose me with sudden twists
   & turns

because you are an open book
whose pages are crammed - top to
   bottom, left to right,
   verso & recto -
with ancient hieroglyphs & pictograms
the basso-rilievo of Morse code
alphabets of varied tongues
   (with marginalia of your own
    scrawl)

i am constantly trying
   to read you

and it isn’t easy
beneath the stiff blank mask of
   forced ignorance & strained
   nonchalance
i wear because i too
fear

the girl inside of me

the girl inside of me
takes a blade to her arms
carves neat precise incisions
wrist to elbow
wrist to elbow

let them call it self-mutilation
let them call it self-destruction
let them call it a cry
      for attention
let them call it crazy
let them call it dumb

but they would not tell me
how else to alleviate the bone-deep
ache of festering wounds
blisters born of vaporous frustration
      of molten rage
abscesses that swell the skin
pulsating with pus and
      disease

let them call it jazz
and let them play it wrong

one slash to release
two will bring relief



16^th – 17^th October 2006

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i am in a little dinghy
in the ocean
alone

above
pregnant clouds drift in
overcast the sky

a gust births from nowhere
breathes life into the water
makes it spirited

the water grows in strength
in its determination to swallow me

in my little vessel
i am prepared

the sky blossoms
with plump nimbuses

i strap on a life-jacket
i am not ready
but i am prepared

the wind howls
a disquieting lullaby
strong clammy hands rock
my sea-cradle

my nails hurt
biting into the battered wood

i cling on for life
literally

i wish for a mermaid’s tail
i will let go if i had one

the water opens its dripping maw
swallows my boat
swallows me whole

but i resist
frenetically

desperately
at first

aquatic fingers unseen
endeavor to hug me close
to the sea-bed’s bosom

once twice thrice
i bob back up
because i am prepared

but it grows tiresome
i am weary of the struggle

i unbuckle my life-jacket
forget why
i had put it on in the first place

instinct?
fear?

the ocean yawns
knocks me back with a gulp

a pill
a mouthful of whisky

for when one prepares
to sleep

i am tired

i am ready
i close my eyes
sink

on ocean-bed i lie
a mermaid in repose

i breathe water
the source of life

i am oblivious
to all but water

i can sink no deeper
i am content



15^th – 16^th October 2006

Mouthwash

I don’t know why
they make mouthwash so
strong so searing
it cauterized my tongue
after a mere thirty-second
   contact
leaving behind a tongue
so numbed I didn’t feel
I had one -
the same way
I didn’t know why
yours was a love so
ferocious so intense
it numbed my heart
a mere thirty seconds after
   you left
so entirely I don’t feel
I have one.

oyster

i do not want
to be the tiny
trifling speck of dirt
   trapped
within the jagged halves
of an oyster’s hell

imprisoned
in the hopes that
i would one day be
molded coated
cultivated
into a precious
pearl

that
even if i were less than
perfect
i still could only be bought
with
poor men’s lives
   and
rich men’s money

be not my world
an oyster
for i have no
sword

Celebrating the Mid-Autumn Festival with a Record High Pollutants Standard Index (PSI) of 80

or, There is No Salted Egg-Yolk in My Mooncake Tonight

Quartering
the mooncake
in the still
   leaden
   night-air -

oi

  (cuts in
   the quizzical
   question)

where is
    the

moon?

Resumé

I can neither cook nor clean -
but in these times it shouldn’t matter -
and towards sewing I’m not too keen -
there are other things at which I’m better;

I’m not quite docile or demure -
though sometimes I might seem shy;
I’m often indecisive and I’m insecure;
I often leave without saying good-bye;

I am prone to temper and depression,
and exhibit strong loner tendencies;
I often do things beyond comprehension,
and many have said I’m hard to please.

As a girl, I’d say I am quite ordinary:
of mien, I’m afraid I’m rather plain
(though sometimes I might be plain scary) -
on the whole, I am mundane, mundane, mundane …

Now that you’ve read through the list,
I’ve a question for you, and it is this:
if these are all that I should be -
do you think you could love me?