How do you express your love for someone?

I'm sure you know, a simple message won't do. You may have yearned to speak to them for weeks but may never have had the courage or even a rational interest to put out. Maybe you have too much to do.. and keeping in touch is too much work and distracting. Maybe you have thought about this and it seems sensible to hold back and do your work instead. Let life take you where nothing will hurt and nothing will be messy. Because restraint is the marker of civilization. Affection is sweeter when it is not selfish at all. Love is all giving.

Anyway, back to the love letter, you ,the reader will have to send someday to the furball/bombshell you must charm and impress.
The idea is to groom a piece of paper into devious black magic, and with which you can bewitch the cruel god/goddess of love, who has taken over your mind. An honest confession will entail telling them about the yearning that you have endured for the longest time. Yet, how many times have you had the patience to tend to a pining admirer who is hopelessly stubborn and juvenile about his bleeding heart?
So allow your heart to drip. But don't ruin the paper yet. Heart will turn blue in due time. And the paper, whiter. Listen to their voice. Does your heart thump at an irregular pace? You should know that that will be a hindrance. It will have to slow down. The paper is still white and you're wondering what that will convey. A cool confidence? Not convincing, is it, with those butterflies in your stomach? They will die unloved. So torture them a little. Smear your love letter with butterfly blood and trace their fading breath on it. Looks colourful and rich ? That means there's some torturing left to do. You know how tragedy is romantic. This time shade the paper with your warm hopes, and it'll darken.
There is no need to give it to them.

Happy birthday, old friend.

Consciousness

Imagined as a reverie of now,
Or like a cloud of green in the back of my skull
With orgulous deference to the final questions, to my ego you finally kowtow.
Clearly, you seem peerless, lonely and gull.
Nevertheless, you are my beloved blind spot.

Mirrors

I've got to find some
Mirrors mirrors mirrors
To show you the lines on your Dorian Gray
The coldness you felt when you said 'I love you' -  did you think nobody would understand the glint in your eyes
Your cursory show of libido - I have a nude of you in my wallet
Oh baby your perfume will haunt them for years and
Do you know your whispers felt like sonic booms
They were delicate creatures drawn by the smell of sex and poetry
Sex and love were in their nature
Don't blame yourself, you just wanted the love and intensity
And the flattery- kept the ball rolling
Do you think it's all true that the scars remain hidden?
Do I have to find you
Mirrors mirrors mirrors
I think I've had my fun

I'll let you have yours. 

Can't let go

Found this old story.

Part one
Part  Two
An afterword of whim

He ran like a leopard; but why?

The nights demons were shadowing his shadow. The night stenched of darkness.

Not the satiny, soothing darkness that one could fall asleep in, but the suffocating darkness which engorged ones saftey and brought up visions of creatures unknown.

The leopard danced to his breath.

It was coming on to his sanity. This coma business.

It was dark and he wanted to escape it.

He wanted to see light and heart-warming smiles. At the moment, even the thought of them pierced his soul with the pin of self-probation to hope.

He sighted the hospital and went through the gate.

After two nods; one to the lady in a peach synthetic sari, sitting behind the reception counter, whose whole body seemed to be affected by the malignancy that this hospital had gigantic wards to treat; the other, to the smiling, homely, doctor who looked suprised that the hero was drowning in sweat and his eyes, too, seemed to have absorbed the sheen, and twinkled, like starlight, in spite of the pleasant weather that the city was smiling under the influence of, and did, only twice an year, for a total duration of about two months.

She hadnt noticed, however, the hollow expression on his face. That he hadn't bothered with a wan smile.

He entered the room. The room of machines, of tubes. He wondered if he could exist without them. His faint hope, no matter how fast his heart was freezing, he credited to these machines. The had become his companions in all his loneliness.

He would often sit all day, and stare into the screen of spikes and betrayal. He would look at the soft face.. With big round eyes, puppy eyes, he called them..and those fleshy, tweety lips. How he awaited its animation.. Incessant chatter, like the years before.

He wanted her to know he needed her. Further, he wanted her to need him too, so she would come to life for him.

Then..he would never leave her side..walk invisible wherever she went. Never let anybody touch her, let alone mug her, or throw her unconscious. That day she had come to see him. To tell him, that she hated his insecurity..and pretension to hide the same..and that she didn't, love him anymore. That she was tired of him. It was supposed to be that simple. He wasn't supposed to expect another chance. Last time, was the last.

Excruciating chest-pain threw him on the bed as soon as he reache home. He had always been aware of his addiction. Of his overwhelming fondness for her, that betrayed even self-love, or self-preservation.

It was coming on to his body once again. The heart-ache, and uneasiness. The thought of separation was like being beaten down on the road..with his balls spewing blood. Or being run over by a train. The same crushing agony..every moment, the thought lingered.

That moment, he had learnt to cry.

After years of being told that one wasn't supposed to, if one had to be brave, he realised that it released the compressed agony into the drops, for that was what surface tension was.. Heart-ache dying to burst out of the tiny bulbuous drop.

Everytime it would ache; after a few days of trying to pacify the storm, which didn't really help; he forced himself to shed those ignominious drops. Once he started, accepting his retreat from hope, it got easier, to cry. His composure, his unwillingness to let grief get the better of him, hadn't allowed him this silent embrace with pain.

He hadn't let his ego obstruct the clear path, between her, and him. He loved, and thus, he had relied on her, to admit his weakness for her. So he went back everytime she pushed him away, hoping she loved him, and would keep him.

Seven days after that; at the time she was being tossed to a road, like a broken doll; he was in the shower, talking aloud to himself, telling himself that even though he had borne all her ignorance, and still, didn't bear the thought of disloyalty, or intentions of hurting her, for the moments she made him suffer, she had commited the ultimate betrayal.. By telling him to leave, even after the last time, when he had passionately told her, that he would leave, if she was disappointed again, in him. If only she took him seriously. If only she loved him equally, if not more. If only she came back, to him.

If only.

Well, she didn't. She had always had others. A replacement for everything. She didn't acknowledge it, but it was a pattern she had created. She was independant, of him, and anything, or body.

At the times she confessed to her fondness for him, it was overwhelming and he could barely believe it. Whatever little he could soak in, from it, would soothe his craving for her and he would gleam with the knowledge of being wanted by his light.

Lately, she seemed to have tired of him. And with all her admonitions, he didn't seem to be opening up for good.

Now, the tables had almost turned. Almost, but not quite.

He sat in a trance, watching her, unmoving.

The wrong forevers were wanting to be broken.

He wanted to drop those bombs of agony, without much sound, and he was trying.

He was suspended in a strange machine..tearing apart his voice, his soul, and body. He almost wished the spiked line on the screen would become a straight one. So he too, could surrender, and live where she lived, for even though her coma was peaceful, his was painful. He envied her.

His ears still heard her voice. And none other. Eyes still saw the beautiful face, and another, the silent one. Both were lovely, but one was almost dead, but not quite.

He walked out of the room of machines. They came. Trickled down his cheeks. He felt light, and hollow.

As it turns out, the author looks at the narrator with a little contempt for crowning the protaganist as a hero in his/her deceptive self-congratulatory cum self-pitying way.

As the protaganist must shine in all his suffering.. err and stand up again.. and carve his path towards a happy ending..

Should it, or should it not be?

What if the suffering ceases to be?

If the protaganist accepts the state of things, of the consuming self-love that envelopes his once companion forming an impenetrable layer between the two..and then walks out on the fate that is not his to be?

Even if, with an inevitable hole in his heart.

Feminism/Sheminism : In Praise of Tanu Weds Manu Returns

I just read this: http://www.huffingtonpost.in/samina-motlekar-/the-faux-feminism-in-tanu_b_7449256.html .

What a pile of donkey shit. Oh these hazed attention-seeking 'modern' 'feminists'.

Tanu Weds Manu (/Returns) is a  movie. I wouldn't want all the theatres to show movies about the struggles of working class men and women finding barely any time away from their jobs and spend that time talking to the house help or doing the dishes/laundry themselves. Would you? The idea doesn't sound so bad to me now, but only if it is romanticized through and through and with lots of.

Equality.

Who says men and women are equal? Equality is a different matter.

The 'modern' definition Google gives 'Equality' is that of being given the same status/rights/opportunities. Which opportunity was denied to any of them because they were male/female during the course of the movie? This is one aspect the movie does exceptionally well in. It even provides an example for the Jat community to follow. Even I feel bad for Kusum and I'd really like her to be richer/have parents but this is the harsh reality the movie lets through. Regardless, she's strong and hard working. Some of us just get a difficult hand in life. It's the reality. Some of us have it easy. In this movie, that person is the other Kangana Ranaut. (She was so good with the double role that not once in the movie the thought that they were both the same person occurred to me. The roles are intentionally polar opposites.)

Do we even know what tickles the brain when it comes to sexual/romantic relationships? It's not one thing for everyone! However, it is clearly known that most men are known to be attracted towards more feminine looking creatures, which again is dependant on the societal context. Just biology and social influence. Also, men are known to be hooked to novelty(and rats are too : http://psycnet.apa.org/psycinfo/2003-10460-015 ) and we know that Kangana provides an escape from the humdrum for the doctor.

If you remember the Salman Khan starrer, Biwi No. 1 Sindoor and Mangal sutra were what drove the husband away! Things have changed and our fawning over the West has become more subtle. Now we want to the lifestyle they have in F.R.I.E.N.D.S. and drink frequently and indiscriminately. It's in our blood. Literally. The alcohol I mean. Of course not the Western way of life. We are too original for that. We must have our bindis and colourful sarees. We're taking the 'best' of both worlds. That's appropriately 'modern', don't you think?

This is not even a feminist issue. Meh.

Stop venting your weltshmerz in the name of latest movies to get hits.

Also, talking about men and women being equals.. they're not the same.. how are they equal?

They'll always have different needs, and will contribute differently to the world with their own unique perspective. We can hardly even club them in these categories. Feminists, unless you're activists and saving people from pain in some way, what exactly are you?

On modernity:

We do know that we are (almost) forced into slavery of some kind or the other to fulfil our social contract and partake in consumerism.
This is a draft. I'm posting it because I'm annoyed. You should be too. 

Hypocrisy and stereotypes

I don't think hypocrisy can be gotten rid of. That requires too much effort and it is often self renewing.

Everybody knows about the snooping, gossiping neighbourhood lady, or the (almost)regular guy who wants to have pre-marital sex and also would prefer a virgin bride. The utter sleaziness of these images separates hypocrisy from our self image very neatly and makes it easier to believe that everyone is not hypocritical. What about the left liberal who says that the British were only doing themselves a favour while giving us the gift of English education and spends the entire day cussing in his or her mother tongue yet always switches to English while talking to a stranger and/or while wanting to be taken seriously ? The liberal arts students, (although they're studying art and proclaim it to be all engulfing and a universal language) will also judge the girl from Rajouri Garden/Punjabi Bagh for speaking with a Punjabi accent and having a discernible taste in fashion. They also do not seem to find henna designs on hands an art form worth pursuing although other forms of tattooing like face painting work quite well. Those are left for the street(poor) artists to earn (almost)alms with. The examples do not end here, but I hope you get the gist.
I think it is a defence mechanism which adjusts itself to your environment and life-style. The most liberal lady/man will have reservations about certain behaviour/section of people and react negatively to it. Yet, in isolation the same behaviour will seem entirely normal and even perfectly healthy, and the people quite useful to the society.
I have one reservation. Please do not go on and on about how hypocritical everyone is, assuming innocence on your part.
The very people who really rock and roll and claim to not care about people's opinions(rather too)proudly confess to consuming the cheapest of local narcotic substances and are also very particular about always mentioning the name of their favourite(always foreign-made) cigarette.

Stereotypes too are used to contrast certain behaviour with our own. Who doesn't stereotype? We know about the science/engineering student who finds the commerce stream student too shallow. Do we also know about the jhola and/or long kurta donning, cigarette smoking mascot of the sociology/economics department who finds the science student too shallow, uninterested in world affairs and the plight of people. In this example, the science student could easily be replaced by someone from their own department who likes to keep up with trends in dressing. Anyway, this list is boring and overlaps with the first but I hope you get the gist. It is funny how so many of us stand tall in contrast and yet be elitist(the elite in different communities though).


Anyway, good night world.

A show of cards

When all is revealed,
and my cards are laid bare
for you to see
will you turn away with repulsion?
You must understand
That you have quite a fan,
Adorer, lover and a lusty eye
Who will look for you
As for a wish which did not come true
If you must turn away.
You are meant to stay forever, by the way
And not leave me alone.
But if you must
I will cry.
Aren't you my baby?
I will hold you tight, and keep you close. Take half your warmth. Burn you with kisses. And love you all I can.
But if you must,
mend your heart and move on,
and not love this sick person
please go and save yourself.

As I please (Not for your entertainment)

Boxing its way through heaps of routine desires every time a blank page was looked at, the need to acknowledge on goings of my mind has finally usurped my being. You do not need to read this. I do not see a reason why you should. But hey, I have been sorted out. I do not deny that this has taken a little help from one little friend, but the fear is gone. Paranoia has turned to love.
I know the help part makes this whole thing sound cliched, but to those who've read my stuff(that makes one, or two, at most) , remember Step One? This just helped.And I know I'm writing like a teenaged girl again, but this is a personal blog, right?
I know that I don't like fear now. I know because I have known it very closely for quite a long time.
This could have been an e mail, now that I think about it. But who wants to read about other people? Assuming people don't.
But. This is my blog. Yay! So feel free to get lost if you don't want to read about other people.
Moreover, I am feeling pretty nihilistic again. All the super practicality gone to the dustbin sort of nihilistic. But in a good way. I do want to create something while I'm here. Not that I didn't want to, before I started feeling so light. But today it's in a more hedonistic way and maybe in a less doing something for the world way.
But well.

the wandering bird has flown to her nest
leaving the pond to the fishes