Accidental Death of a Mistress

The linen shirt, black & lifeless,
hanging alone in the dark;
It mourns the loneliness too.
Should I turn over the page,
maybe there was a comma I misread.
There is the dull morning that waits,
I only have 6 hours to breathe in the lull.
For there is the sound,
that writhes with the pain,
the sound of someone typing some words down.
Shall I look? Take a peak.
mistress meaning has chosen to lay
not here but in your slumbering verse.
Won’t you wrap her in your arms,
soothe her pulsating neck with a kiss?
Look straight below the mountains of her breast,
into the tiny hollow valley of her womb,
won’t you?

Ask her.
The madness she invites for when she walks away,
quietly out of their sentences,
leaving her lovers looking for traces of her.

She’s a twisted little bitch,
but a proud one.
I bow to her graces for when she enters me,
for a moment I feel impregnated with a thousand lies.
I yearn for her touch,
when she holds me in her grasp, I almost feel hopeful.

The last I saw of her, meandering,
like a careless deer in the woods.
Couldn’t she see the man in the black shirt?
Even the sullen tree shook,
In that moment, it knew more.
He bore with him the nude ego,
it took a shot in the dark.
What learned men couldn’t capture, he killed.
In a reckless play,
He found, forgo & finished the spells of Faust,
riddles of Chanakya…even the plight of Plath.


The 5 Stages of Grief with the Addition of One

Of late I’ve encountered the many stages of grief but I had read that there were 5. Elisabeth Kubler – Ross tells me, that there are 5 stages of grief. We grieve by denial, followed by anger then we bargain, moving slowly into depression and finally acceptance. I did feel that denial is like steady rain, it’s there outside your window but you can’t hear it quite for it is so symmetrical, so ordered that the absence of chaos makes its presence an absence. So, for me denial was like this steady rain that was there but not there. I couldn’t engender it in a sentence and make a speech for its existence in my routine.

Denial is almost beautiful – you have faced an ungodly act of destiny whereby suddenly you feel all you know is what you didn’t know, what you couldn’t fathom, see or hear. I lived in a state of denial for three whole years, whereby I saw things that were real but I denied their existence. My mind questioned the very sanity of my thoughts, I had not a single soul, not a mirror to reflect onto my feelings an ounce of truth. There was denial, for three years, sitting beside me like a ghost of my own actions whispering into my years that this cannot be. 

When there were enough voices, coming out of bodies made with flesh & blood I believed. I slowly believed in the truth, the inspiring uplifting truth. The beauty of which is, it is a slap in the face of a hysterical child – you snap out of denial. But followed by realisation is another childlike emotion which is quite nasty. It’s like a dragon breathing breaths of extinguished flames. Your body is filling up with extinguished fumes or that is what you think. I have heard people tell me things about passivity; the thought of crimes of passion, the imaginative sand castles that aren’t that innocent – what really happens when the floodgates of hell open. Anger takes over. Anger has a funny way of changing your very core. I was asleep or sleep walking. To suppress your anger is quite like tying a rottweiler’s face – the moment you untie it, there will be blood.

What happens when your anger is to no end, no true purpose?

it aches. 

I suffered at the hands of anger for a while. Someone said it’s quite poisonous; I understood the fallibility of other people better, though. My mind told me, they are humans prone to making ugly decisions, decisions that hurt others. I’ve made some too. I have hurt people, walked off when I thought it suited me, it was better for my own well-being. However, all the good-human-talk is of no use. By the end of a good day, the nasty thoughts are back and I was angry again. Will it make me a horrible person to want to hurt someone physically, to wish another human being dead? Of course it will. Anger just helps you break a few moral barriers and the human ones too.

This morning I sat thinking to myself, am I going through the regular model of grief. For I felt I could forgive. For a moment, I could pity & see the frail loneliness that they suffered too. I could see through all my aggression, how they were just bound by the longing for a love unrequited. I guess, I have been there in his shoes. I have learnt to love better ever since. Here I was experiencing compromise, without even knowing it. I will continue to bargain I suppose, in my pleas to hurt less or to turn back time, but the rational Ego knows better. I couldn’t for a moment control my Id I felt, it was wayward it wanted self-mutilation, it wanted to drink the rationality down or to put into a silent state of slumber. I’m better than that, I know. That self-knowledge does mostly come to rescue.

Did you know a cold wind, strongly blowing the breath out of you helps? I didn’t. Now I do.

I think there is this one stage that Kubler-Ross didn’t mean for us to know but discover. The phase of ‘being’. Where you learn to ‘be’. It is beyond acceptance for you have accepted what is, what cannot be and how it happened. You’ve given up the arms you took up against God, humans & chance events knowing your own ineptitude as an insignificant tiny human on a map of billions. I think in the middle of all that dust settled books, the piles of unsorted clothes & the mess of medicines at my bedside I found I was still uneasy – nothing had changed really. He was who he was, she was who she was. I was, well an accident. I could now be with the rationale that accidents happen – all the time. I could be alone with myself and smile because accidents do happen. This time one happened close to home. That was all.

We shared a chromosome

I occupied the chair,

she could sit on my leg.

I would laugh like a maniac,

her giggles often suppressed.

She wouldn’t be stern, or ask for what she wants,

I was needy enough to beg.

She hid behind the silence,

I hid behind the guffaws.

Honest to god,

she was some years younger to me,

but wiser in her thoughts.

I had sex like a whore,

Her dignity, like a chanderi she wore.

Maybe, she’ll be a doctor.

Maybe, she’ll go to the States.

Making her way into my dreams,

she was now the story of success.

All I shared with her,

was the chromosome X.

For The Love Of Empty Roads And Hazy Nights

I’ve been used to people staring at me like I’ve done something blasphemous. I had a good run of the mill routine; travel to a nearby market, hang around with a bunch of friends – smoke a little, and share puns and other funny shit. I’ve loved the idea of driving aimlessly, in C.P. at night because it is the most beautiful area to loiter at – especially in the dead of the night. The city looks more beautiful to me at night – everything is new, different almost magical. I’d take my 15 year old dump of a car, throw in some smokes and chips, kidnap a friend and drive around flipping FM stations at night.

What a life it is; when you’re ignorant, you’re also fearless. One night, a friend worriedly blurts out, that I was followed home. I was in a car, safe and unseen but stalked by 2 men on a bike. The idea slapped me across the face. It was that nasty feeling in my gut – suddenly I was reminded of all the times I never checked, or looked back, to see who has been following me. Ignorance was no more a ruse.

I had to face reality. My city wasn’t after all in the true sense ‘mine’. The idea was so terrifying. It now hurts more. I live with overtly protective parents and why wouldn’t they be, I’m in Gurgaon. It is no safer than Delhi. I can’t take my car out at 2 a.m. with my girls and drive through the city like a force of nature. I feel like a hurricane trapped in a tumbler.

Why loiter?

Because the streets were so mysterious to me, so romantic. Different paths were like a micro discovery, new areas felt like continents found. I loiter because I think the idea of a walled house is claustrophobic. For my soul has forever been drunk on the idea of roaming, loitering and traveling.

I want to run on the street at 5 a.m. But I can’t, I fear for my life.

I want to sleep on a bench and stare at the sky. But what will they take me for? I fear, they might call me a whore.

I want to dance like no one is watching in the middle of the market because I feel happy. I can’t, and I won’t. There is always someone watching.

I had to part ways, with the night and the roads. I seek comfort in the thought that someday, we will reclaim the streets and I will be my reckless self again.

Unbalance Sheet

I’ve been dealing with this constant cycle of loss. Without exaggeration, you can call it a cycle where people keep leaving me. I wouldn’t say it’s my awesome personality that they often have had enough of, mostly it is the timing – maybe of a job, of a new love affair, or an old flame coming alight. I’m quite a handsome young (butch, a bit) woman. It isn’t unfathomable for a man to leave that kind of thing; they often have other insignificant aspects to ponder over, such is the character of men <insert sarcasm>.

Coming back to the question – the cycle of leaving – that I’ve been trying to probe, whether this cycle has anything to do with me as an individual. There are people who’ve been kind enough to put a mirror to my face, thankfully not in the literal sense of the sentence, and this mirror told me that you my lady are not the prettiest of them all.
The mirror also spoke to me further, not in a psychotic hallucinogenic reaction sort of way, I was shown in due time the cost of being unexpressive, the reasons for being obsolete, the challenges of the ego, the damning possibility that one may not be as kind as they deem to be, the constant need for affirmation, a needy sort of craving for love…and the list went on. Aghast, obviously, I feel now that maybe the mirror wasn’t lying. How else would you explain this cycle of loss. Losing people to circumstances is one thing, losing people constantly and consistently is an acquired skill or sheer ignorance at work.

On digging deeper, I suppose, I could say this urge to know or come into awareness, was only the need for control writing itself out in the form of a bad dream that’s gone out of your control. I was seeing the irritability of my mind, determinate in its efforts to decode the most boring coincidences in life for a miraculous discovery or a moment of self awareness. It wasn’t going to be this easy ever. Some people told me making lists help, others were of the opinion that go back to the books, some modernists sages thought that brain pickings could help, there was of course libra horoscope (a permanent line item in my search history), the phone-a-friend helpline, even soothsayers were making themselves available – the universe was trying to help. Clearly. Here I was grovelling to my fate, a devout believer of self pity, unable to channel a few basic resolutions or have a little fist fight with the Tyler Durden in my head. Why couldn’t I let go of such worthless self debates; was this my mind on standby? Maybe having free time isn’t good for everybody.

A few drinks, more than a few box of cigarettes and bad take-out food later, I had arrived.
Writing was going to be the cure of this monstrous disease I couldn’t assign a name to.
I’m not going to stop till it cures or curates the disease. In either case, I would’ve have caused you a little discomfort & purged some of mine.

An ode, or not.

How fragile was she?
For she broke like a glass,
sometimes a mirror,
she spilled like rum sticking to the floor.
How malleable yet again,
for she went from form to form.
Her in the now,
a little dolphin under the sailor’s sight,
then again a star losing its light.

She would want to be like her,
a character built,
maybe born.
A voice that breaks the equilibrium,
understated yet powerful.
She couldn’t see how her beauty,
so charred much like her mother’s,
from the charcoal smoke of the occult house.

Her fall like the orchestral encore,
gracefully followed by a bow,
uproars, shifting bodies, applause.

To me she was but a shadow.
She could rot a room clean,
be the dead flower over the caskets.
She could be the whimpering sound
I heard. Mostly, a dead dog’s cry.

But she was all in all her hurt pride.

Jill came tumbling after…

I thought tonight I will write you down not like a memory but like a burning desire, a desire that had taken the flesh off my bones. I could see the liquid skin churn, fester, leaving a smell behind that made me choke with tears of fury. Tonight, I thought I’d drink you down like something from the past that wasn’t worth the money I spent on my bus ticket. I spent so much on the alcohol, a little on the conversation but more on the food and yet there you were staring at me with blank eyes. I thought I could fill them with love. I had truly believed I could give you what the world had robbed you off; the sheer propensity of my protectiveness made me hate my guts. I would writhe in the pain of not being able to be the one for you. Here I am still writhing in the same pain. Such are the decisive risks we take. I was sure of the risk, I didn’t know how I’d take the failure though.

You’re sometimes the heartburn of food I fill my stomach with, it pleases me. I know it does because the taste of a good cheesecake is undeniable. You’re sometimes the ashes from the 28 cigarettes I burn my insides with. On most night, you’re the memory I push down with re-runs of a show I have seen already a 100 times for I can repeat the words ‘pick me, choose me, love me’ in my sleep. You’re so many things. And there you are like we had never met, like we never knew each other. There you are a perfect stranger staring at me from behind the curtain of an expensively built facade of respect, popularity and shameless greed. You sit there looking at me like a fellow traveller, maybe who was destined to leave me with no cash and I am destined to perhaps laugh about it.

I began to write you down, here I stop to think of words for mostly you’re an uneasy space in my chest. I don’t know how to knock you down; whether to soothe you with an old fashioned or to eat you up with ice cream tonight. Binge watching would help. As I seek some comfort in words, I remembered you with a friend over a fresh brew of beer – you were just a good date on the calendar and it happens to coincide with my existence, you were a fancy lamp on my naked floor of which shadows are hard to part with, you were the cold winter night or a comfort of a warm quilt, you were the friend on the phone at 2 a.m. disinterested in my woes & worries, you were the man of very shaky words and I a woman of only words. We were never meant to meet, never meant to be, never meant to see eye-to-eye. So it has to be.

I flip a coin to the next one, here I see again I’m a blank slate but still the black behind which is a whole spectrum of colors dissolved, dissipated and covered up. I think you seem to be an ecstasy, you are another passage of grief and I wished you were a door to a whole new world. You are one man but many, it was to be a different story yet a version of a sigh from years ago that I gulped down with a few L.I.I.Ts & old rock songs.

Would you try and not take me up on my offer, it would be good to know that denials happened sooner. For to be here after so much mental exercise for a lazy soul is a painful climb up the hill alone.

Letter to an Invisible Man

Hi, you!

I think it is difficult for me to let go of your beautiful eyes staring at me; the way that playful smile lingers near your soft cheeks when you quietly call out to me for the forbidden things, that you and I do when no one is looking. Your voice, husky and almost rude; it often sounds like a comfort or privilege over the phone. How dearly you would calm my nerves, when I would feel like my chest will implode with worries of not now but tomorrow, the day after & so on.

You, beautiful unknown soul that resonates my own tune in most horrors. Our love for hedonism, childlike glee in looking at the drudgery of common folk, a shared sense of prestige in the flukes, or the near misses. When you laugh, it’s hard not to follow suit – it’s like that nasty bird in the dead of night. I wonder why you run after me like a mother and knock sense into me like a father.

You sting me like a poison, so strong. You push against me like a force of nature, edging me toward acceptance & delusion together. In your baby palms, I feel the icy cold touch of lies and your inhuman eyes sometimes I cannot read no matter how hard I try. Sometimes your smile is inviting, and when I try to come close you run away. Like a cat you hide behind the cigarette smoke, peering at me with that sarcastic smile and I feel naked suddenly.

There are so many little things I mull over in your absent presence, how swiftly you take charge of the sweat on my brow.
Your feminine grace, your masculine pride runs through me like the incense of a musty wooden bookcase with stories I am dying to read.

Often in the silence of the night, when no one is looking your presence is only that of a body silently stationed next to my trembling hands racing on the keyboard like they would want to get past the future of impending disasters in a few keystrokes. How it is to be, that you’re only a story – a riddle I sing to myself, when the agony of my untouched soul screams to be heard. I pacify the little child this heart is, by spinning the wheel and making that golden yarn to tie the little notes of missing chapters from my life.

Here you are, away in another world or another reality. Your words remain, your stupid jokes remain and so does your bloated sense of amazement at how I feel about myself. You are truly the forbidden fruit, I don’t wish to seek. How adorable would be though, I wonder…to lie in the comfort of your checkered arm, discussing what life is, what happiness could be. Your life ends at the last period I placed in the notebook from 2014.

Touch of unspoken words

I was feeling the keys,

How the fingers fell between,

the unwritten notes,

of incoherent sighs.

I was hoping to find my voice,

in the monotony of type.

Waiting for the dream thoughts,

to take form. I dreamt more.

Shaping nothingness,

into a mould that dissolved, she tore,

the very real,

she broke, what couldn’t heal.

She stole,

in your words, similes of borrowed beauty.

Will you turn around, tonight?

Missing what shouldn’t be,

kissing the porous moments,

fleeting lies.

Will you be somebody I need?

She wore her questions,

to sleep.


My body won’t stand by me.

How often I tried,

to not feel,

to not hurt,

to not crumble.

My body doesn’t stand beside me…

They tell me,

it’s my mind.

A blur,

a casket,

a song,

a swallow,

the flight to nowhere,

I come home again.

They tell me, it’s me…

My body cannot stand by me.

Echoes of your voice,

your humble beginnings,

of stolen smiles,

laughter in the corridor,

she sticks.

Of dawn, days & nights,

spent in ignorance,

of riddles in your words,

and the silence of your eyes,

she beckons.

It’s quiet out there,

I would like to take that walk with you,

but my body won’t stand by me…

Sleep…she whispers.

Let’s crash together

Breathe less,

talk a little more,

In a string of words,

like morsels on the road.


by a thread undone.

Hit hard,

picked up by a stranger once.

Take 2,

the scene was dark,

two voices in a dusty room,

only breathing hard.

You saw through me,

I was scared.

I talked less,

we breathed more.