Letter to Self

Walk one step forward, take two backwards. Give a damn or not. Be passionate about something, or care about nothing. Wear a bikini or drape those six yards. Write a poem or doodle on a serviette. Paint on a canvas or draw stick figures. Love blindly. Love wrong. Hate with venom. Wear bright red stilettos or yellow boots or white and pink trainers. Try hard or don't try at all. Be great, be small, be mediocre. 

Forgive or avenge. Be too fat, too thin or just right. Be happy.

Be alive. Or be dead.

But choose. Make a fucking choice. 

Dusk.

The night wolves,

They howl,

They mean no harm, 

But they get to you

Those cries.

The fear,

It creeps in,

It takes your pride,

And leaves you

Naked.

Mama should have told you,

To veil your heart,

That it was too black to give away,

That, when they broke it

It would hurt all the same.

Catharsis

Systematic dissection of the soul
Attrition of a life
They tell you
How men should be
And make a mockery of identity

Those who don't hide their voice
Do it because they know not how to
They were not taught
Standards and  measures
And living by yardsticks

If you were mocked at
And hated
Or frowned upon
For choosing to choose
Rest assured, you have lived well.

To know
And make strangers
Friends.


To laugh
And make memories
That will sting someday.


To love
Like there is
Forever.


To dream
And see a dream
Crash.


To live to see a friend not make it as far.


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This is for my friend Flight Lieutenant Sreejith Maloor.  For all the laughter we shared. For the "Eurotrip" we wont have.
I hope it was over before you realised it.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/indiahome/indianews/article-2196002/MI-17s-Horror-midair-crash-Gujarat-kills-IAF-pilots-crew-board.html?ito=feeds-newsxml

Responsibility.

the blank page
the smell of rain
the tight hug
that just got tighter

undisturbed sleep
happy dreams
unclocked days
and some happy sleeplessness.

the carefree laughter
the re-ignited passion
the promise to live stronger
and be insanely happy. Forever.

Seventeen.

As I pack my life into two suitcases,
I realize I pack my biggest nightmare in.
One of loneliness on some strange shore,
Away from the warmth of a lovely home.

Born and bred on hugs and kisses
Some pampering
And many I-love-you-toos.
Born, into a family of emotional fools.


I have a dream,
And if this be its price,
Then I'm gonna have to pay
So I'd rather do it with a smile.


So I wipe the tear, burn my fears
As I remind myself, I'm the first name
And not just the last.
I pick myself up: self, centre, et al.

Once the newness wears out,
And all tears have been shed,
I shall have that tryst with myself,
And finally learn to know
The mask from the face.

In Retrospect.

When I look back, I'd like to be able to justify my life. I'd like to be able to argue fully for my mistakes, and defend my failures. If I should happen to have a tryst with success, I'd like to know, it was choice and not chance. I'd like to know that I went into each episode of my life, knowing completely why I was going there.

If I can't live the life of my dreams, I'd like to revel in the knowledge that I tried. I'd like to pat my 20-year-old self on the back, and say, "It was one helluva life!".

Green.

Of conditioned air
And artificial smiles.

Of monster egos
And little talent.

Of processed food
And artificial exercise.

Of virtual lives
And fake living.


In another life,
I'm gonna be a farmer, I promise.
_____________________________

In that life then...

Of steady money,
And no sweat.

Of cushy chairs,
And no broken backs.

Of smart clothes,
And important work.

In another life,
I'm gonna suit up, I promise.
_____________________________

It's the damn grass, I tell you!

Blue.

After you've objectified
And rated
And branded me
To your soul's satiation,
I'd like to sit down with you,
On one intelligent conversation.

And I can tell
From the way you
Objectify and rate and brand people
As if they were things,
That you wont last the discussion,
That you'll be begging for an out in five.

Gold.

Of slight drizzles,
And paper cup tea parties on wet terraces.

Of tears and tummy aches,
Caused by excessive laughter.

Of nostalgia,
And a wild wind that comes from some happy yesterday.

Of moments,
You would like to freeze in time.

Life is a sum of all the living silly you can manage.

Hot Pink.

Of angels with broken wings
And princesses with crowns of thorns.

Of damsels in distress.

Of all things pretty and nice,
That were so yesterday.

Of shrews and sluts,
And girls that can cuss.

Of burning bras and pink panties,
And some confidence, revamped.

Because, those knights in shining armors,
Can go take one long hike.

Because, nice doesn't make it past the night.

Cyan.

Of regret
That's a constant pain in the ass.

Of a journey
I know I shouldn't undertake.

Of choice
That eludes me.

Of a life
Waiting to be lived.

Neither green nor blue, today's is the colour of uncertainty.

Some life, this.

Baby Pink.

Of love at first sight,
And pretty pink sarees.

Of a pair of silvery gold shoes,
That you could kill for.

Of sheer sophistication and pure elegance,
And the perfect smile to complete the ensemble.

And in a parallel universe...

Of the rickshawala
That couldn't take me for a ride.
Now, how ironic is that?

Some baby steps, these.

Aubergine.

Of a square peg
In a round hole.

Of the nymph who hides
Behind the comfort of a masquerade.

Of the complete misfit
And her fight for identity.

Of her courage
Or the lack of it thereof.

By what measure does the blind man judge the beauty paegent, afterall?

Some life, this.

Scarlet.

Of ego,
And the perils of nourishing one.

Of anger,
And the need to cultivate it.

Of a lesson learned,
On the importance of taking offence.

Of self-respect,
In the life of an ex-doormat.

Some life, this.

Purple.

Of the middle finger
And other such luxuries.

Of the comfort from hugging a loved one
And falling asleep.

Of the luxury of having at hand
Hot tea on a groggy rainy morning.

Life, on most days is
About the invisible crown I like to wear.

What a life, this!

Green and Grey.

Of the eternal quest for the impossible
Of some semblance of its silhouette in the horizon.

Of a threshold for tolerance to stupidity
Of people doing their best to cross it.

Of an utter distaste for mediocrity
Of having to suffer it every single day.

Of a prisoner's freedom
Of her cognition of that freedom.

Of relief, just plain old relief.

Some life, this.

Tangerine.

Of roasted almond ice-creams,
And chocolate sprinkle toppings.

Of a nice long walk with mama,
Under the orange sky of an almost rainy evening.

Of a renewed romance with Jagjit Singh's eternity.
And old Bollywood numbers
That papa would put me off to sleep with.

Of an old passion, and my love-hate relationship with it.

Some life, this.