A Little Bit Of Grey. 412z17

a little bit of

grey.

Meghna Gulati

Copyright

© 2016 by Meghna Gulati.

ISBN: Softcover 978-1-4828-7438-9 eBook 978-1-4828-7437-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, places, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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Contents

Maps

Schadenfreude

Home

Sleep tight

I do not have a name

Graveyard

Redefining beauty

A Hangman’s Obituary

Mothers

Bipolar

Writers Bleed

18

Redefining Art

free fall

Lost in infinities

Color me blue, color me red

Your face reminds me of a rhinoceros. (no.)

What do you think love is?

How do you know you’re a writer?

Of neck laces and burns

Relatability

The aftermath is not beautiful

Are you able to stay with your sadness?

Aborted

Breathe

Comfort

84

Protocol

Introduction

Open at the close

Dysfunctional

Silence is just the screeching of sound.

Foreword

How does one introduce an anthology of poems written by one’s own daughter – someone who started writing almost as soon as she could hold a pen? I have seen her grow from when she had just started weaving the words together, to form a beautiful tapestry. There was a time when I used to edit her pieces. Now, a few years down the line, I send her mine. She has evolved as a writer from when she used to rhyme words to make poetry, to today, when the warp and weft of words lend more credence to her being than ending syllables. Meghna is a lot of things – she is someone who organizes and interviews and edits, but first and foremost, she’s a writer. As she puts it, in her piece, “How do you know you’re a writer?” “You know you’re a writer. That it is your breath, your scent, the look in your eye.

That with it, you are alive- alive, even in death, and without, you are numb, small, unmoving. Insignificant. You know. You know you are a writer. And you can’t not be one. Not anymore.”

Meghna’s poetry is a reflection of herself and the world around her. It’s about what she’s seen and what she’s heard, coned with her perception of the people around her. It’s not a view of the world through rose-colored lenses. It’s raw, it’s gritty, and it is real. It strips away all layers of pretense and tugs at your conscious being. Some facts, some fiction, and a whole lot of emotion.

Today, I have the privilege of presenting to you, “a little bit of grey”, which is a confluence of the world within and without, with a gentle caution. It’s written by a girl who’s, physically, 19 years of age, and mentally, eons ahead. And Meghna, your face reminds me of a rhinoceros (no.)

Smita Gulati New Delhi

__________________________ P.S - Also, how does one write a foreword when you’ve never written one before? You Google it! I am advised to mention whatever fancy titles I have. Fortunately, if one is not knighted doesn’t necessarily mean he isn’t a ‘Ser’. I’m Smita Gulati, a stay-at-home mom with an awesome husband and two lovely kids, Meghna and Madhav, who keep me on my toes and for whom I always strive to do better.

Also, I’m now the mum of a published writer.

Introduction

“That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you’re not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.” -F. Scott Fitzgerald

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been a misfit. I was either too fat or too thin, too tall or too short or too average, too out of place, too seemingly comfortable (but not really). In the hopes of challenging the society’s perception, I began working. I filled pages and pages with things that interested me, looking for stories and experiences – for people who loved, lived, lost. And I wrote. I wrote like my life depended upon it. I wrote to look for solutions, and sometimes ended up in a more complex dilemma. I wrote to vent, and ended up hollow. I wrote so that I could stop feeling entirely, but ended up feeling so many different things that I didn’t know I was capable of feeling.

I wrote, and I read, and in the middle of all the confusion, I started chalking out my own path, seeking communities that could offer belongingness. And here, in this book, I talk about those elements. The ones I found along the way. Love, life, loss. I talk about connections, and offer words that provide comfort the way I know it – in its harsh, raw manner.

And so I hope you connect to words the way I do; I hope you find solace and hope – that you relate; I hope you find where you belong, or at least, take the first step.

“Sometimes I can feel my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I’m not living.” —Jonathan Safran Foer

Thank You Aastha Sharma, for the motivation (10/10) Aman Srivastava, for the design (and comments in the corridor) Rahat Chawla, for realism and for all smiles Tilak Tewari, for the belief in seemingly useless things

And my brother, and parentsI exist for you.

a little bit of

grey.

- An Anthology of Poetry, by Meghna Gulati

Maps

I’ve always been good with navigation; perhaps that was the reason my hands were so quick to trace their way on your skin. Blindfold me, I can find my way from your ankle bone, to the narrow valley between your back, to your nose, I know it all. The palm of my hands have felt it. My fingers have clasped and held every part of your body, as my head burned in turmoil. My hands know you the way an artist knows his way around his creationexcept I never created you, no. I didn’t breathe life into youI just discovered it. The way an archaeologist finds and cherishes his new discovery, you were mine.

I’ve always been good with navigation but ever since you left the door open, left me in the blinding abyss, I’ve never read a map again.

Schadenfreude

She penned it all down in words full of gore how her father had been killed and she watched it all alone. Quill in hand, muse in place; she cared little about the ruthless men merely props, she’d called themhelping her fit scene in frame. Perspective mattered, she said. Besides, she lacked inspiration tonight. What better than her single father being shot by a couple of men. And as he breathed his last, she put down her pen and called and screamed for help. Some called her a writer others screamed schadenfreude.

Home

I am asked, often, why my mind wanders off, why there are minutes, seconds, days when I seem not to care; why it is that I seem to seek something that is not there. I tell them I am homesick. Homesick, for a home to which I can not return, a home where I never did reside, a home that maybe never was. I am nostalgic. I yearn. for the places I’ve lost the chance to live in and the people I’ve lost the chance to be, and the souls I’ve lost the chance to meet. I

am filled with grief- for the loss, for what should have been. Maybe it’s smultronstalle, or fernweh, or maybe it all makes sense and I’m filled with wanderlust.

Sleep tight

My mother taught me, when I was young, to think of all I love, to think of all I care about, every night, before I sleep. We’d together chant a prayer (that was, until atheism took over)- one for those we love, and one for safety- and snuggled in her, I slept. The routine, humdrum faded away. I stopped praying when I was ten. Sixteen years forth, George Martin taught me otherwise. He taught me I should never forget the people who once harmed me or the ones I loved. He

taught me of being cautious, wary, and safe. I thought of it, and I thought of my mother, all warmth and love and safety combined, and how they both seemed to say, “Good night, Sleep tight, I’m here if need be.” I think of you before I sleep.

I do not have a name

I am 1. As the six men entered the school, they shot me first. I do not have a name. All I am, is a statistic. I am 27. It’s been an hour and half, and the paramedic needs to declare the number of people who have died. The last head he counts is mine. I do not have a name. All I am, is a statistic. I am 42. They tell me, “The smallest coffins are the heaviest.” I smile and tell them, “Good thing I’m tall.” I do not have a name. All I am, is a statistic. I am 67. It’s been three hours. I feel constrained in this ambulance. I can not see, I can not breathe, I can not be. I breathe my last breath. I do not have a name. All I am, is a statistic. I am 99. The old man seems to have forgotten to count my head. They declare 95 dead. I do not matter anymore. I am 98. The old man returns. 104 dead, declared. I do not have a name. All I am, is a statistic. I am 119. The man with the gun asks me to Allah. I beg him not to shoot my brother. I close my eyes. Jannat awaits. Distantly, I hear gunshots fire. My brother is dead. I do not have a name anymore. None, but His. All I can hear, are screams. Screams of the 120 who have died. Of those who saw them die. Of those who survived. All I am, is a statistic. I am 132. They tell me Malala just commented on the attack. I tell them she doesn’t matter. Shots fire. I do not have a name. All I am, is a statistic. I am 143. They’re out of heads to count. My mother weeps. My father vows to never speak. I close my eyes and drift away. I do not have a name. All I am, is a statistic.

Graveyard

I wonder what would happen if I buried your ashes in my grave. No flowers to put a mark on your dreams, nor a funeral to speak out pretty little eulogies full of white lies. On a cold winter night. No cries, and no one would care. Buried together in eternal solitude a piece of you, all of me. A whole of me, and

you- a memory.

Redefining beauty

(beauty is italian leather and haute couture; silk ties and gold wristwatches; but that’s beauty at it’s finest sometimes beauty is rolling curves and low necklines; dresses like gemstone flashes and the glint of the sun off high-rises sometimes beauty is dark hair and blue eyes and a love that burns so strongly he wants to put it into song; it’s no wonder it all came back to music but beauty can be simple too there’s beauty (he’s come to learn though it took some learning) in the chime of the elevator bright and early monday mornings there’s beauty in the creases on his forehead when he catches what’s being thrown and throws it back with a scowl there’s beauty in her eyes when she talks about the day they met with fondness undampened by years and years there’s beauty in the first sip of morning coffee and the sun rising over the edge of his balcony there’s beauty in her smile when she talks about her husband and beauty in his elaborate and innumerable eccentricities there’s beauty in her fire and the bittersweet sorrow of their last goodbye there’s beauty in her tenacity because he was always fond of people knowing what they wanted most of all there’s beauty in the front door of a brownstone that’s come to signify ‘home’)

A Hangman’s Obituary

I am not an expert in obituaries, By profession, I am but a doctor. I save lives, and father Takes them; He owes me some, then; But I’d rather it be him Than the old retired executioner Who stood as his predecessor. On Parent Meetings and Sports Days, Father was never there. I suppose he never quite Figured out how he could declare What it was he did, that brought Some bread to the table. It’s a funny story, actually. (I always wanted to say that). Father hung three hundred And seventy three people

In his lifetime; He smiled during five, Cried during three, And prevented one from happening Entirely. But by the time his turn came, His officers didn’t him, His colleagues didn’t care, And his friends didn’t remain. All the cameras have left For another war. He died listening to BachIt was the same one he heard While hanging those 373, But I suppose it should be no surprise He hung himself too, after all.

Mothers

He looked back and forth between me and the child; stern eyes and the posture- rigid. Once. Twice. Thrice, he said- Never Become a mother. I didn’t understand what he meant, for I did my best to care. It hurt a bit, until I realized, this is What mothers do. They scold and scold (some more) and shout and hit

until you’re back on track. And here was Iwith emotions here and thereall things unstable. running my hand through her hair Caressing, Whispering; careful not to touch the one spot she’d cut. All the while her eyes filled with hatred and disdain. I looked at him and then at her and saw what he was trying to convey.

I wouldn’t take too well to not being loved. And slowly nodded in agreement because this is what mothers do. They try to be okay with not being lovedsometimes not much; sometimes, at all.

Bipolar

I stepped out to shop and bought home some ink- color with which, I inked my skin. Blacker than eigengrau, holding more beauty than Belle, I painted across, claiming my body, my canvas. It took a month- a painful one, for the color to set in, and for the flowers to bloom. Another three cycles of thirty days each, had me whining and howling and screaming in pain. Not knowing where it came from and when it would leave, I turned to see

on my bare back, that inked part of me, hoping to find some sense of familiarity. But it had grown and grown, claimed all of my back- all ribs, and all valleys in between. Expanded, and still on, as if to let me know my body wasn’t mine. I tried to scrape it off, to rub it off, but it only turned darker and darker, and more sunken in. And all the flowers and leaves colored, inkeddropped to the shed, Forcing me to call it home. Bringing a feeling, so numbing

and deathly. Sore and hollow. Leaving me transfixed, and quite unable to move. Until seeds were planted and stars burned brighter. Brighter than the molten fire oozing out. I brought more ink and painted my skin, this time, in blue instead.

Writers Bleed

twenty seven steps forth, with four fumbles, and two near-falls; a glance into the mirror- a nervous look-over. breathe in. breathe out. to the beat of the background noise, if so it takes. hide within, pour your soul out. repeat. it’s okay. repeat. let him in. a piece of your mind, lend, and let it transform from a mind to satan’s doorstep to how you think heaven might look like, if there ever was. watch as he grows on you, as you pick his habits, and make them yours.

drink on life, smoke the dead whites, and ignore the subtle warnings you find. breathe in. breathe out. to the beat of his heart, if so it takes. hold hands. hide within. repeat. it’s okay. repeat. let ennui wash over; the feeling of apathy. let her drag you and beat you until not much is left. watch as he walks away, away, farther, his cries lessening, fading. gone. let the warnings scream. breathe in. breathe out. to the sound of dejection, rejection, and loss. let the fingers slip. find a new place to hide, for his early departure claimed

your being. fail. hide amidst the seven walls of despondency, hatred, and inadequacy.

18

Father, shut the door She doesn’t want You here. Not anymore. Don’t ask me Why, I’ve learnt how to tune You Out. Tonight, and tomorrow, and after, Too, You don’t belong. You never did. Not with her rules. Mother, take in The heat, the fire, the dust storms. I won’t promise it’s worth it; I know you will, Anyway.

Brother, Sleep. It won’t go away, but you, You can. Run away. Nightmares are better, I promise. They’re not as real. Grandpa, The voices you hear aren’t ours, Maybe you’re just making it up. I promise We’re not insane. Grandma, Thank you For not letting him know. Mama would not be very pleased Nor would he be. Mother, Let him in. He needs to learn, You need to teach. Complete Each other.

It’s the only fairy tale that has the power To come true. Father, Mother, Brother, I’m not sure I can pretend For very long. I’m exhausted. Emancipation sounds like a great idea. Except, I don’t have the cash. Will you lend it to me? Good night.

Redefining Art

(art is gouache and charcoal and chalk dust and oils carved on canvas with a palette knife art is plaster casts and iron molds and fifty kinds of stone to carve his name into with care but he’s never had a name that mattered; and it’s hard to be an artist if you don’t know who you are art is forgeries so flawless no one can tell the difference; but that is art at its finest art can be other things too art is the flip of a hat and the hitch of a smile that warms the heart of a widow art is distraction so subtle no one feels it when you lift their wallet art is charm and quicksilver smiles so disarming the NRA seems liberal art is dedication and perseverance because three years makes all the difference art is managing the socialites of the city with skills so fine a hair couldn’t split them; and making a busy home feel warm and welcome even when one half of it is away for a while art is coded letters and carrier pigeons and knocks in the rhythm of iambic pentameter because ‘thou knowest not’ art is finding a place to belong even when there shouldn’t be one)

free fall

when my great grandmother heard we have artificial satellites in space, she said “I wonder what would happen if someone were to shoot them. would they just float around with no tether with nothing to bind them waiting to explode with no one to hear them just a tiny speck lost in space.” and i ed a science class i once took, that said the millions of objects in space don’t float; they’re pulled by the gravity toward earth, but the earth keeps

curving away, refusing to comply and i guess what they’re really doing is falling with nowhere to really go. sometimes i wondered if that’s what i was. with no force to guide no path to follow. but then you came along and it was like whispering into a soundless room with my voice reaching every nook and every corner without me even trying like tasting stardust for the first time in a world bereft of the sun. i had no one to tell me that that was what an echo was like.

Lost in infinities

My friend of six years walked up to me that day and after chitchat and random talk asked me how I’d been. I brushed it away but clearly she was intent for the next thing she said, was- “Are you still smoking?” I looked back at her with daring eyes which shut her up but inside, crumbling, breaking, falling as I started thinking back on all the English lessons I’d received, from twelfth grade to primary, and in that moment it boiled down only to this: Still wasn’t a nice word. And I know that nice isn’t nice either and sad and happy

aren’t nice and art isn’t nice but for whatever it was worth, Still wasn’t a nice word. Because how do we accept the fact that our little infinities have only ever comprised of almosts and stills. How do we get past all the things we almost achieved but didn’t and the ones we are still stuck on. How do we let it go, let it be? And I dug up my memories- all, good, bad, and blue, going back, recalling, reanswering each almost, each still, each lost story. Are you still smoking? Are you still drinking? Still visiting the psych, still mailing your dead mother, still hoping for a response, still fighting the monsters under your bed when you know it’s you? Are you

still sad, still blue, still lost in the light? Still trying to find yourself, are you? How about the grey ribbon? Still clinging? Are you still cutting? Are you still a zombie, still breathing, still existing. Are you still, a disappointment. And I told myself the same over and over again until it was imprinted in my mind. Shining, a carving. While it wasn’t a nice word, I was, indeed, still.

Color me blue, color me red

My father, he used to hang all the bells and little gifts and ribbons and cotton, flowers on the very large christmas tree my mother bought each eve with the spot at the very top reserved for the angel chosen by me It became a ritual, even on the sadder years; even when my father came home drunk or mother overdosed the night before. We always had the christmas tree and the very pretty mistletoe they kissed underneath. I wonder now

seventeen years down when did the tradition stop? At which point, exactly, did we realize what we were doing was not a ritual- it was something we did out of habit to convince ourselves, more than others, that we were still living in the apartment on 3rd and 6th. I wonder now seventeen years down when the stockings at night became the red that would hide the blood from last night. I wonder now seventeen years down if it would still have existed had there been berries left on the mistletoe. if the last berry

was more like the last leaf. Because When did we stop being a family, and become six people sharing an apartment instead. Do you still practice the rituals, Do you still call yourself a family when you’re wishing for death? Do you still hang stockings every eve if you don’t have a family? Do you still keep stockings under your bed and hope for sweets when you know Santa Claus is coming to town to color the town blue,

and you, red.

Your face reminds me of a rhinoceros. (no.)

When I said that your face reminds me of a rhinoceros I wasn’t saying that you look like a bulky box Or that your skin looks grey I was really trying to say that You make me feel like there are a hundred 5 ton mammals stampeding across my heart And sometimes when I look at you I can’t even breathe Because all the weight of wanting this Crushes my lungs until my chest burns like an African desert Consequently most rhinos are found in Africa And I researched all of this in the hopes that Maybe you would understand

You see the thing is I am not good with emotions And I know as much about love as I know about quantum physics And I don’t even know what quantum physics is about Or what it means for that matter

I’ve been trying to read all the romance novels that I could find I’ve been trying to watch all the rom-coms I can torrent It’s just so damn difficult

When falling in love feels more like Jumping out of a helicopter A hundred thousand feet up Without a parachute on

One day I will be able To directly say what I really mean Without metaphors involving animals That only I understand I know I will But for now let me just say Your face reminds me of a rhinoceros

What do you think love is?

I don’t know, no. I think of love, and I think of The old couple who stayed Together, For sixty seven years. They weren’t very different from my Grandparents. When she ed away, He knew. She didn’t make his morning coffee, But that was different. There was something else. There was a dreading coldness covering His body; Something that never shook him up Before Not like this.

This wasn’t anxiety. This was his body Refusing To exist without her. This wasn’t tragic. This was a tragedy. He made a 911 call. When the car arrived, he asked them When he could collect the remnants Of her bones. Her soul is hiding, He said. The paramedics were too young, Too naïve, Didn’t know what to say Or how to say it. A week later, the house started stinking Of fleas and shitpots. I made the 911 call; They didn’t like funerals, Or burials.

So we spread their ashes in the air. The world could do With a little more love And a lot more faith.

How do you know you’re a writer?

You know you’re a writer. when you think of people as books you just need the chance to read and yourself, as the one old, tattered chapter you’d rather skip. When you can pen down about that old, distant cousin you rarely talk to, with ease, but words fail you when you wish to describe your beloved. You know you’re a writer. When you weep not into your cushion, but paper. When tears abandon, and all words imprinted on your soul, like a paintingdrawn, sketched. A canvas, stretching from your earlobe to the tip of your finger to that funnybone

to that birthmark on your hipwords. Words you wish you’d forget but just can’t get away from. Words you wear like battle scars. Words you repeat to yourself at night before you sleep, waiting for them to lose their meaning; knowing they wouldn’t. Not to you. Not ever. You know you’re a writer. When you think of grey when you talk of skies, and blue, of the ocean. You know, you’re a writer. When sticks and stones become monotonous and words, like the weapon of mass destruction. When they shy away from asking you for summaries because you can’t, you just can’t, and instead, you whisper every tiny detail, every secret, and every conclusion you

arrived at, ever, until you watch their body shiver. You know you are a writer. When it’s 4.17 in the morning and you’ve just been told you can’t write, that you shouldn’t, and your body clenches and your heartrate increases and all hell seems to be falling apart, and there’s nothing you want to do- nothing you can do, but write, write until your fingers bleed, your hand hurts, and you fall asleep. You know you’re a writer. That it is your breath, your scent, the look in your eye. That with it, you are alive- alive, even in death, and without, you are numb, small, unmoving. Insignificant. You know. You know you are a writer. And you can’t not be one.

Not anymore.

Of neck laces and burns

I lay awake last night trying to figure out where this smell was coming from. The kind of burning that takes over when your house burns down, when you lose everything you ever owned, when it takes all of you to not wither away like a flower with no fragrance left. It took me four days to realize that this familiar suffocating smell that seemed to haunt me was not from an appliance. It was me.

No wonder I hated living in this body I claimed was mine. Because that was all it was. A claim. You had taken over the fibers and cells and I didn’t know where I belonged anymore. This feels so much like a Love Letter or a despondent response to Dear John but we both know better. This is real. This is daytime. This is all feelings spewed on paper, and more. I can not describe you to my therapist because I would seem like a damsel pining for her lover. How do I explain to them that you are the lover I never asked for.

That you loved me, but I couldn’t be set free. Ours was a symbiotic relationship that I didn’t want to be a part of. I am clutching at the necklace I bought for you, for me, this day, last year. I am hoping it comes off. I am afraid it might. For I do not know a life without you. I can not live, I can not breathe. I can not do this without you. After all, you’re me and I’m you.

Relatability

I saw dogs today, two. Not moving, unshaking. The first lay curled up, paws clenched, body tired, giving up but not just yet. A nude color, with splashes of brown. Ignored by its master, being kicked around. I related, almost and stopped my friend to tell her – before a figure blocked my view. What I saw next, shocked me. A sack of sand sat before me, majestically, as if to taunt me. I moved on, all dazy, hazy, and on my way back I saw the second. I pulled over the car and walked right out; I decided to tend to the dalmatian (a funeral, perhaps?) as it lay in the middle of a busy traffic road. I wondered

who leaves a dog this way, ruthlessly, for it lay dead, all black and white, with tiny specks of grey. I looked back and jumped forth as the light turned a fiery red. Turns out the vet wasn’t needed, for a truck went past and it suddenly transformed my spotty dalmatian into a garbage bag someone had disposed off of. I walked ahead and later slept with a thought- lingering, repetitive, in my head. And I wondered about the bags and sacks and human life and thought the same again. If I see the living in the dead, could it be they see the dead in me?

The aftermath is not beautiful

People always told me they love hurricanes — that they love the force it brings along, but not the destruction. That they appreciate the wind and they find the aftermath weirdly beautiful. But they never talk about destruction. They never talk about how the houses — they shatter, fall; how sometimes in less than sixty seconds she goes from being loved

to shattered. People never talk about loving destruction and I wonder how we can only love a part of something. I wonder if it’s really love. and I want to tell them there is no beauty in destruction. There is no beauty in the aftermath. It is not beautiful to watch her stumble and fall. It is not beautiful to watch her lose everything. It is not beautiful to vomit the cup of strawberries and grapes.

Bleeding wrists at three-forty five on the bathroom floor are not beautiful. Depression is not beautiful. The aftermath of a farewell is either bitter or sweet. And it’s almost always bitter. It is not beautiful to love destruction. It is not beautiful to crave destruction because how can you love something you do not fully understand yet? You can not love. You can not love.

You can not. Without the mechanism You can not love something you do not know, yourself, yet. You can not love something when you do not know yourself.

Are you able to stay with your sadness?

My first instinct is to say, Yes. Yes, because I know I am sad, so many times During the year, the quarter, During the month, the day, The hour, the minute; Sometimes, it’s not Related, and sometimes I miss the connection Entirely. I know I am sad, so many times, And I acknowledge it, often, Welcome it. But then I spring back, Because in all these years, all these times I’ve told someone I’m sad, they’ve asked Why, or what for (in French, the word For both those questions is the same, Pourquoi, did you know?)

And I find it odd, because we’ve stopped asking Why people are jolly or merry and Even the religious, they only seem to god when they’re unhappy, or wanting. And we will do anything to run away, To say we got over it; Are we really staying with it, Welcoming it, embracing it, As an emotion that we need, if not want, As a reminder of our humanness, Every now and then? No, I am not.

Aborted

Forty five million fetuses are aborted every year some sooner than later some more painful than the others some, more voluntary. I was one once. And I don’t say kids are good because Satan was once a good friend And I don’t say Abstain from Sex because if you told me the same thing once I was seventeen I probably wouldn’t listen either but here’s the thing, I’m kind of confused. I don’t care if you didn’t want me and I don’t care if you did, I’m not there yet to knock some sense into your head

but I don’t exist anymore, forI grew and grew until I didn’t anymore until the placenta seemed to vanish and so did my heart and limbs and the tears didn’t exist as yet so I didn’t know how to cry but I swear if I did, the words “Cry me a river” would come to life. And there was nothing but blood everywhere. Blood was me and I was it, like I didn’t have to consume any of it anymore because what was the point of nutrition if I wasn’t going to exist. But what of my own will to find out if I was going to transform into a smart one or a pretty one because the last doctor who came to death, he met me. He said he delivered babies, and disclosing a child’s gender

was against policy so he used smart for girls and pretty for boys and silently screamed Screw Patriarchy in his head. So I’m confused because Inside Out told you that a child has limited emotions but apparently they were wrong, I don’t. I feel more than just anger and sorrow and fear, I feel lost. Lost, like I don’t know what my purpose will be anymore, like, maybe I’ll grow up in Hell and get to meet Vader and Robin Williams and so many others I haven’t met yet and maybe I’ll grow up as their brainchild and make friends with fire. But maybe I wont.

What if I don’t? Make no mistake, I don’t hate you. It’s just that lately, blood red has been seeming kinda blue.

Breathe

I am more. More, than the sum of my parts. More than just a name, than just a machine to reproduce- more than something that speaks; I breathe. I am alive. Like the leaf you hold against sunlight, you will see life running through an entire universe, within me. You will see light. I am alive. I hold galaxies within me that you can not comprehendgalaxies beyond what you dare to find out, to understand. Pushing, pushing, never stopping. I am whole. I am

complete. You can not quantify my soul, nor the fibers of my being- a being that is beyond your reach. And when you do not see all that there is, when you refuse to acknowledge the life I hold within me, and bring me down, break me, to my parts, ruining my essence, hoping to sell me off in a garage sale piece by piece, do not be surprised when you do not find buyersfor you saw me complete, and they see a piece. I am down, fallen, trodden upon. When you look into my eyes, you will not see light. You will see cries of souls tired of being catcalled- living in the

darkness, dying, withering, unflinching, moving towards you like the Ghosts of your past at four am. Do not seek buyers for something that can not be sold, nor keepers you don’t trust. Quantify me. Break me. I am less. Less, than the sum of my parts, less than what you believe me to be, less. I have no place in this society, it is a world I do not wish to be a part of, less. It is a song I do not wish to sing, it is a fingerprint I do not wish to leave, it is lives I do not wish to touch. Mind, oh mind, this cruel place is not for me. It is a world where I do not breathe. I am not

alive. Darkness becomes me. For they broke me into pieces and all that is left of me, is memories.

Comfort

I check my phone. 3.13am. A hollow feeling crops up, but at that moment, hope does, too, for my phone blows up and doesn’t stop until I open the text with giddy hands- why won’t they be? I know it’s you. It’s always you. At 3.13, my time, and at 2.05, yours, and at 17.45, either’s. The oddest times one could findof course it’s you. You’re worried. You ask if I’m okay. I tell you I don’t know. I ask if okay is this dead, hollow feeling that I can’t get

away from, or this fear, perpetual fear, or the hopelessness. You ask if I’m okay. Again. I remind myself of the tiny thermocol and I tell you, I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay. Like the waves trying to drift the soil away but failing. You ask if I’m okay and I’m annoyed, but content. For all stopped asking but you. You make crazy remarks that make me laugh. I mentally remind myself to say Thank You. I forget. Later as I put down the receiver I tell you jokingly, I miss you. Come soon. (because we’d both probably drown in awkwardness if it

were anything but.) and with impending doom I know you won’t. I blink. Once. Twice. Thrice. I stay up the next night and wonder why you make the difference that you do. I play with metaphors and analogies, trying to settle on one and failing. I want to compare your presence to my blanket, grasped every night, providing comfort. My hiding spot. But then I realize you’re not around a lot. I try comparing you to that one spot in the lobby that I adore and always perch myself at. But then. I don’t go to the lobby much now. I scrounge through the tiny somethings

and finally settle on possibly the most random thing I could find (but wasn’t our friendship random, too?) Smooth, sharp, and tying it all together, not letting me break, fall, give up; often, opening locks and giving way to a realm of possibilities, and isn’t that what you’ve been doing? Broadening my mind and perspective, turning the lock just right, exactly when you need to, to let my quiet rage flow. The next time we speak, 4am, my time, I tell you I like pins.

84

My precious It has been but six days since you left and you told Lionna you’d be back tomorrow. But between travelling and timezones, I reckon, two more days before I see you shall . This don’t sound like a poem much nor a letter thought over and over before writing (Hardly, you say.) Eight days don’t count for much,

Even my dear Thomas can count up till eleven. But there isn’t a day I don’t think about you, nor a night my sleep is restful. I wake up, some nights, calling your name, and the house help answers, asking me to go back to sleep. “The hour is late.” But no hour is late, and no hour is early. You taught me that, one day, between asking me to stay quiet and begging me to let it go when my son knocked

at two am in hopes of finding cash. “And a bottle of wine, if you could, from the liquor cabinet?” He scares me often, and his wife, more so. But I dare not say, for I fear his calls might stop entirely. I haven’t seen my grandchild in four days and when he comes, his screams feel like thunders, his words, like splinters, and I wonder if this is why all grandparents adore children, for the fear they may not see them again, next day.

“Give them what they want, Calm down. There is no point in an argument.” your voice echoes in my head. “It is a discussion”, I repeat to myself. But I quiet down, anyway. I wake up some nights, calling your name, telling myself you will be back. assuring myself you will be back you will be back.

Protocol

Dear Mrs Thomas You tell me I can’t stay any longer, that it’s ten pm and well past visiting hours, I need to go. You tell me Hospital Protocol dictates that I can’t see my child post eight pm because the nursery doesn’t allow it. But ask a five year old what Nursery means and she’ll tell you it’s the class she was in before this, because well, he’s in KG, right? And doesn’t Nursery come before Prep? but my daughter won’t be like her, Mrs Thomas. I know that as a nurse it’s your job to tell me, but My daughter won’t grow up to learn that there are other meanings of Nursery apart from this one hell hole room she’s staying in, a room that reeks of sterile air and blood. Don’t you see? My daughter won’t grow up at all. They’ve tried everything possible but now she’s just staying in this room waiting for her impending death. because any day now we’ll pull the plug and for the first time I’ll watch a forty day year old baby die, having already learnt words like ventilator and inexplicable. and I am desperate. Desperate to do anything I can to save her, even when I know I can’t; Desperate to give my blood to save hers, to exchange my life for hers. Mrs Thomas

I don’t know how to exist anymore. I’m surrounded by my mother and my husband and these host of other people barraging in, who claim to be coming to offer moral . but when a mother-daughter pair come in together I don’t know what to do but let this hollowness inside the pit of my stomach consume me. Post partum depression is a thing, but I don’t think that could be it because I was so happy to have given birth and finally see my daughter with my own eyes. Finally let her feel my movements as she felt mine. But I can’t see right now because everything appears blurry and it all comes to look as nothingness and nothingness is becoming everything. I don’t know if I should describe this depression as a face first crash, bloody mouth full of gravel, or a freight train colliding into me head first and smashing me against the tracks, leaving bits and pieces of me in places I don’t belong. I’m feeling and not feeling at the same time because they kept telling me she’s going to be okay and now she’s not. She’s days, maybe hours, maybe minutes away from death and she’s just. not. okay. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately and maybe it would’ve been better if she was still inside me, protected, because at least I wouldn’t have to watch her die. I wouldn’t have to watch as her brain sends wave after wave of terror and panic, trying to signal her body that something’s gone terribly wrong. That it isn’t supposed to be this way. Her first surgery was supposed to rectify all intestinal problems, allowing her to breathe and digest and function properly but the doctors fucked it all up and I can’t help but think it’s all my fault because I attract dangerous situations you see. And this isn’t a situation. It’s a clusterfuck. There is no rectifying, no untangling involved here. Only loss.

Only grief. and one more human being learning to give back to the Universe the air she was owed. Dear Mrs Thomas I’m being told I can’t have another baby. but please tell them I don’t care, tell them I don’t even know if I want one anymore. Dear Mrs Thomas Let me stay past visiting hours, at least to make my baby stop crying. because frankly, you see, I stopped caring much about hospital protocol the day my daughter was born.

Introduction

Mother I don’t know if letters are supposed to be read out for everyone to know who I am or who I am not for them to know what I have done or what I have become; But reading out stuff is my forté because this one time I was told I have a radio voice, and another, that I make words

sing And father told me I sound like you, so as letters go, I don’t know if they’re supposed to be read out but I’ll do it anyway. I am not the person you think me to be. But you’ve known that for a while, now. I see it in your eyes not when they look at me, but when they don’t.

The way you’re on the last thread, hanging on with little or no hope left. So this, this is an introduction. I didn’t plan it, and I’m sort of overwhelmed because all I’ve every written to you are long, sorry explanations, or hate mails, or paragraphs, asking you to not be my mother anymore. Mother. I am fourteen and I can hear you ask if I have had physical

relationships, if I’ve been on drugs for a while. No, mother. I am fourteen and I see you for the first time lose hope in me. Mother. I am fifteen and I see you pick out pretty little gifts for everyone but me and I see you for the third time not care. Mother. I am seventeen and you declare

if there was a name for an accident waiting to occur, it would be mine; like maybe the world had run out of warning signs and all it needed was my face plastered on every billboard asking people to not smoke on every red light and zebra crossing on every Wanted poster that had not been filled up yet. and I see you for the fifth time give up. Mother. I am eighteen

and the girl on the back seat of your car lies unconscious and I see you for the second time not want to try. Mother. I am eighteen as I tell you about my sexuality and nothing more needs to be said. I see you tire of me for the first time. This is an introduction, Mother. To me, To us,

To what we have become. No longer can I breathe for sometimes, I start to wonder if the air I exhale is really smoke. I can’t stop consuming cigarette after cigarette filling myself up with nicotine for I fear if my body has no more of tar left to give out, my mouth will still be releasing smoke clouds and one day, a nine year old will wonder, and ask her mother how there was filth leaving me,

but none entering. This is an introduction, Mother. No accidents must wait to happen anymore. They already have. Men I trusted have learned I’m not very good at saying noI just say nothing at all, and so they claimed my being and called it “Mine” as I lay in shock with a body paralyzed with fear. This is an introduction, Mother. Sometimes I drink too much and wonder what you would think.

It takes a while to hit me, you wouldn’t. My highs are really lows disguised, and lows, I’m not afraid of, anymore. Because it’s sunshine that’s hurt my eyes all these years. It’s funny, really, because The Joker and butterfliesthey’re still my best friends. I am exhausted of pretending of participating in therapies that are no more than business transactions. Mother you wondered if you raised me right

and what you did wrong. But the fault never lay in you, it is just I, Who is too accustomed to being screwed up, is all. Mother. They tell me I am too much like you why, then, do I not wish to have kids of my own anymore? Mother. I don’t know if letters are supposed to be read out but I’ll do it anyway.

Open at the close

You asked me to write a piece on you So here it is Soul baring, heart wrenching, And all that other bullshit you had me thinking about for days. Here it is With my brain wiped clean of all residue And my mind beginning to forget what your voice Sounds like Baby I cant anything anymore.

I’ve been trying to piece together Everything that happened Eleven months later, even Today. Call me obsessed with closure But things have stopped making sense to me And I’ve been writing poem after poem

Spewing ink on paper, hoping some day I uncover a sliver of New evidence That’d shout out to me that I’m being hung up For no reason at all But I’m tired of trying to solve jigsaw puzzles. Because even the best of those Need an extra pair of hands sometimes. And you’re not here. You haven’t been here For quite some time now,

But make no mistake. This is not me waking up with dampened eyes that mess up my eyeliner from the day before. This is not the bile that burns my throat. This is not the hollow in my abdomen that refuses to go away. This is not your bottle of rum on the shelf At the foot of my bedA gentle reminder that I now have nightmares alone Again. Make no mistake.

This is not me falling in love with the idea of you in my head. Not again.

But these dates and times and numbersThey’re refusing to leave my head, I don’t know what to do with them. September. October. April.

May. First of May. I don’t quite know what to do with this one fact that you started dating my best friend two days after we broke up; And there’s too many things in my head that need voicing. Where do I even begin. For every statement has now become a list and every questionA doubt. But riddle me this. If it’s loyalty you really seeked What made you think you’d find it in the friend who chose you over me?

Stupid of me To think you actually meant everything you said. It’s a common problem with writers you see. We take you at your word.

First of May. I keep going back to that date. But for all the mess it’s created For all the times I’ve doubted my worth For all the times I wished you’d come back But didn’t really want you to – For what it’s worth I hope you had fun in your attempts to engage in seemingly meaningful conversations about choices between blues and greys with her amidst faltering words and hidden hearts As you fell out of love with me,

Hoping that the legend of the seven waves is true, Wishing, praying, that the strongest of them all comes Crashing down and drowns you.

And I’ve spent days, weeks, months, watching your name Sink lower and lower in my “Frequent s” list until It disappeared. I can’t describe the feeling anymore- it was part- relief And part- realization that you’ve taken a part of me with you that I can’t ever Hope to get back. But what do I do with the part of me you’ve left here. What do I do. With me.

I’ve been screaming at myself in Parking lots and subways, lately. I’ve been screaming at myself For I still write about you.

I find instances of you in the soft tickle of fog Distant songs Faint music

Old, yellowing books.

I’ve taken a fascination towards vintage stores. I want to scream, I am starless.

I keep going back to that George Martin poem I once wrote Thinking how it fits you perfectly.

And lately I’ve been feeling like A book left face down Pages wrinkled Spine flattening Half way through what once was your favorite stories. But it’s okay. It’ll be okay now.

No longer am I waiting to start where we left off, To open at the close. It’ll be okay now. It has to be.

I’ve found my home in a soft reflection of light that will ultimately Gouge caverns into my flesh.

I’ve found sanctuary in empty springs that lost the will to hold their own. It wasn’t always like this way.

Once, We melted inside Seeping gasoline through translucent skins And breathing fire through woods. It wasn’t always like this way. You asked me to write a piece on you So here it is. But it’s closer to nine now and The idea of this cheap tequila burning my throat Tastes better now that it’s done.

Dysfunctional

“As stories go”, she said, “ours isn’t the lightest one. Nor the most fun. Ours, just is, dragging all the weight of the world on its shoulders.” “Tell me anyway.”

“Ours, is a family of disorders. Sometimes, we live. We sing and dance and chirp. En contente. Those are the good days. My father has anxiety, with frequent attacks. Sometimes They spring up in the middle of a traffic jam And I watch his body convulse as his mind Showers him with wave after wave of terror. He spirals into panic. Sometimes, he wakes up In the middle of the night Shaking, shivering. The kind you only observe in nature as The tectonic plates beneath the ground start sliding on top and bottom

Of one another, in a haphazard manner As if they forgot their way and the geologists Are too busy searching for the next big thing on the other side of the crust. Too busy, to teach them how to exist Again.

Maybe that’s what makes this house so prone To earthquakes.” (I). Was there a possibility for this to end hopeful?

“My father, Sometimes, he becomes completely still. Unable to take in or process any sound at all As he asks his son to shut up Shut up Shut up Just Shut Up. And I watch my brother quiet down and become scared. The kind of stillness you never really get to see in someone who has ADHD.

Unless they’re watching the next episode of Pokémon, of course, In which case, good luck trying to pry them away.” (II). ADHD was supposed to be fun.

“My brother, With a total of eight years in him, picks up on things that the best of people overlook.

He re objects as treasured memories; The glass by the crack that my mother once dropped, The mall by the carving on the glass The road routes by hairpin turns you’ve long forgotten. He shows comion better than a therapist As he offers seat after seat Plate after plate Coin after coin Lending not just his treasures, but parts of himself. Hoping some day someone will return the favor. On good days, He tickles you until the wind gets knocked out of your lungs and your feet get tired of running, Legs of falling,

Throat, of asking him to stop. His feet never tire. Exhaustion isn’t a word he knows very well, and it’s not for lack of trying. Like a new born bird afraid to stop flying Because what if she can never do it again. And so she carries on, as he does, allowing monotony to take over. My brother He pays attention to the minor things and in the midst of the bustle He loses his span. And so instead of stories, he re elements.

Why did the chicken cross the road? Oh, I don’t know. Do you want to cross it too and get some ice cream, maybe?

Some days, he s my mother in her fit of mania and they both sing old Bollywood classics at the top of their lungs until he wants to watch television again and she gets Irritated and angsty over everything.” (III). This wasn’t a joke anymore.

“The days she cooks up stories and bakes cookies and solves twenty sudoku puzzles in two hours-

We call them good. Good, like I could achieve it all. Good, like I may be worth something. Good, like the cuckoo who finally managed to find a good nest.

On other days, she s me in my depression and as I contemplate suicide, cut after cut, She does nothing but stare at the wall and pull her hair out. I guess this is her way of keeping me company. She doesn’t the therapist’s number anymore. And we lie together, like two forgotten notes, shoved and closed up in an attic full of dust and smoke. Her cup is full. Half agony, half hope. With her bipolar and my depression, I guess it’s no wonder we have a love/ hate relationship.” (IV). “Caution”, she screamed. “And so I shut down. And sink lower and lower and lower Until I reach rock bottom, with no consolation Of “there’s only going up from here” because My brain, my mind, my body Can dig deeper each time, into Newer layers of abyss. Exploration is a luxury I do not have

For I have seen these images before. Memories, as realtime. Flashbacks commence as I lose my mind within itself and forget that a world outside Exists.

My father, in his streak of anxiety, pushes me to Listen. To care. To let the world take me in. But this world cannot absolve me of my deeds, dad. He sinks into a world of his own, leaving me to mine.

Ours is a family of disorders. But it’s important to say, it isn’t always like this way. Sometimes, we thrive. Other times, we just exist. Depending upon each other but not always wanting to.” (V). She walks away.

Silence is just the screeching of sound.

The first time I cut I was fourteen On the tenth of January, as my brother turned five. The world rejoiced as I wept. I wept, not for the years that were being added but for the lives that were being taken away of the kid who decided he just couldn’t take it anymore that beatings and thrashings could only be dealt with for so long that the house on the eleventh floor was on fire and if he jumped now maybe he wouldn’t make it but at least he wouldn’t have to wait for the flames red as hatred to claim him. It’s always better to jump,

they seem to be saying; but there’s no man I’ve met from the afterlife who’s laughed in agreement. And I think of the fifteen year olds who’re living their lives as a nightmare and the twenty six year olds who’re wasting it away. What draws us into masochism and then insane, I do not know; ours is the only specie that seems to be doing it, because even the cows know they must step out when they’re surrounded by shit and the pigs - they only stay as long as it’s fun. And for every pig who strays from the mud there’s a man getting drawn to his blade like he’s going to carve out the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen

and we shout out words of encouragement to lead him on but we forget to notice his canvas is his skin, like his body is a temple and he must decorate the living shit out of it. But the great men- they got it wrong. Our bodies aren’t temples, they’re not hollow. They’re blankets and after a point there’s not going to be any more cotton to pull out like strands of hair; there’s only so much burning it can survive. And it’s not a bowl, it won’t get empty; It’ll cease to exist, and there’s only so many times you can put it back together. and so I’m trying to figure out if lives are really worth it, if Sisyphus ever got rid of his compulsion and stopped pushing the boulder

or if he really was content. I’m trying to figure out if every sign board on every man’s face is really trying to ask us to find mistakes and if not, then why are we so taken by this endeavor. I’m trying. to know whether my heart is really chasing the wrong things because I feel further away from home than ever; My heart lies 575 kilometres away today and it’s running at a pace I don’t know if I can match And should I just give up or should I argue that circling counterclockwise is really going to slow us all down. The first time I cut, I was fourteen. It’s been forty eight months and yesterday I realized I’m tired

of pushing the boulder up and no matter the compulsion, it’s finally time to stop.

You are a blazing forest fire and I am a masochist with scorch marks on my chest