Jagged

 

Susurration

 

Jordan

 

Arpeggio

 

8.4095° S, 115.1889° E

 

The Presence of Your Absence

 

The presence of your absence, is a church bell; distant but clear. 

It is the coarseness of a slice of toast without honey; insipid and pointless. 

A room with no view, is how the lack of you feels. 

The frustration of not being able to recall the lyrics of a once favorite song. 

The aftertaste of my morning coffee - fleeting and desperate to linger. 

Like the sediments of grainy coffee in your mouth, I hope you can taste me every now and then. 

A stale croissant, is what the absence of your presence is. 

A tiny crater inside me, simmering with fresh pain, is the absence of your presence. 

The pleasure of doing nothing with you, a luxury now. 

Black

 

The years on my face, they made a map,
And you wonder why I’m always black.

You never asked what I’ve seen,
For the scars, they told you where I’d been.

Stories, they pour from my eyes,
Estuaries of black, on my chin they die.

Salvaged my soul, but the mirror it cracked,
And you wonder why I’m always black.

Lemongrass & Melancholy Tea

From the balcony in a matchbox Hong Kong house, I see tiny yellow double decker buses and red taxis, silently whizzing past. There is a clothes rack, full of tiny clothes and my striped pajamas. This is the one hour I have before she wakes up.  The chores are done (somewhat, and for now) and I am hoping to drink my lemongrass tea while it is still hot. 

Is it strange to be melancholy about who I used to be? I don't mean that only in the context of time. I mean that in all sincerity because I miss who I used to be. I miss having a friend to meet, a plan to keep and a place to be. I don't mind the responsibility; I'm just not a fan of excluding everything else in the process. Why cant I still have friends whom I meet for a cup of coffee, and yes, the coffee may be rushed and hurried and interrupted but I want to be able to soak in the comfort of that familiarity, of unloading my thoughts without any inhibitions. Why is that too much to want? It has been very lonely for me in Hong Kong. For the first couple of years, there was the excitement of travel, weekend trips, friends and family visiting but all that has changed.  To be honest, even amidst all that I remember always feeling lonely in Hong Kong. The couple of friends I had, moved out and it has now been a few years of having no solid, stable or genuine friendships. Everyone I know loves Hong Kong and yes it's safe and clean and efficient and all that but emotionally, it is lonesome, alienating.  I feel I am always in a bubble of my own - a silent bubble, where I brood in my thoughts and feelings with no release. I sometimes fill that void with 'things' and/or food. Both rather unhealthy options. 

I miss having someone to talk to, to do things with, to be silly with. Insipid - that's how life seems. Lucky are those who are self-sufficient. Unfortunately, I am not one of those who rely on themselves for entertainment, solace or company. Of course social media only adds to this loneliness as I see people in a similar stage of life (and some in a free-er stage of life too) who are doing so much with themselves and their time. Me? I'm regulated by practical errands and practical furniture, both of which I dislike. I don't shirk my responsibilities but surely a little life can be added to the house with a colorful carpet, or to my evenings with an occasional glass of wine and good conversation? 

Who are these fulfilled, content people with such balanced lives? Who are these people who live by the beach and eat cupcakes on a Saturday morning, basking in the sun while their kids make sand castles? Who are these people who have game nights with friends while their kids eat hummus and carrot sticks? Who are these people who pop a child and go back to their pre-baby size in a month? Who are these people who always look so well put together, so classy and graceful? Who are these people and how do I become one of them?

Nepal

In ways, I can only hope to describe, Nepal is like an old lover. One you haven’t seen in ages but she, who still lives somewhere in the recesses of your heart. All you remember is that splendid first glance, that feeling of being overwhelmed and then losing track of time until its time to come back home.

The simple splendor of this country filled my soul with peace, my heart with joy and my lungs with pristine air. Walking around the lazy, sepia toned streets of Kathmandu and Lalitpur, one cannot help but feel a certain calm enveloping them. Patan Durbar Square, a UNESCO World heritage Site where the Malla Kings of Lalitpur once resided was one such place where I just stood still and tried to capture every little scene in my mind’s eye, hoping desperately to never forget what it looked like. For every memory captured in a photograph, I wrote a little note to remind me of how I felt in that moment, in that space.

Made more with love than with bricks, Cafe Cheeno at Patan truly became an asylum for my weary self. With an abundant collection of books and generous sunshine, I often sat there, content in just being. Lemonade on my table and prayer flags swaying in the breeze – it was one of those moments when happiness didn't feel so elusive afterall. 

A twenty minute flight later, I arrive at Pokhara valley, only to realise that for the next two days, I am going to be blown away, over and over again. Close your eyes and imagine a secret lodge, tucked away at the foot of a hill, camouflaged by trees and flowers. It sits like a shy bride, on the other side of the lake, and the only way to get to her is via a boat. Right out of a fairytale, Fishtail lodge made me realize that coming to Nepal was one of the best decisions I could have made. What was scenic and lush green by day was star studded and serene by night, interspersed only by the sound of crickets, for I was living in their world, not the other way around.

Walking in Pokhara, I didn’t know which way to look – at the quaint & woody restaurants & pub’s lit by gorgeous paper lamps or across the road towards candle lit cafe’s with cane chairs on pebbles, with little fences opening up to the lake side? I choose the pebbled path leading to the lake and when I get there, for a long time, I just stand in silent awe. The bluest skies I had ever seen flirted with fluffy clouds, played hide and seek in the golden glow of the sun. I’m quite sure they thought they were being clandestine, but the Fewa Lake, a gentle spectator, reflected their colors and intentions for me to see. If I were to describe ‘love’ in a non-human kind of way, that was it. The feeling of being allowed to witness such splendor, made me feel more alive than I ever have.

And in that silent lucidity, I heard the chiming of temple bells resonating all the way from Talbarahi temple. Floating in an almost island, in the middle of Fewa lake, this temple had around it, brass bells of every size, each vibrating with a different frequency, only to create an incredible symphony. I looked around and saw only lush green mountains, placid grey waters and colorful para-gliders dotting the once blue, and now a smoldering evening sky. 

For the adventurous soul, there is much to crave in Pokhara – waterfalls, treks, para gliding, rafting and maybe some permanent ink on their skin. For a soul as restless as mine, sitting by the lake in cushioned cane chairs and some wine was more than I could ask for.

The saviour

ANARA 

A motionless goodbye escaped her eyes as the signboards moved swifter than the fears in his cruel heart. He didn’t take the chance, the last chance there ever could be. Calling it cowardice wouldn’t be man enough for his mighty self, the being that would destroy another’s very fiber. It was a fleeting moment of knowing more than she did; a depraved sense of power that motioned his hand to wave back at her. He could stop rehearsing the lines in his head now, for her petite self was now almost  indistinguishable. Anara waved one last time before merging into the space between not-quite-here and almost-there. She would never return.

Lost in the silence of the ruthless traffic, he drove without knowing how far he had come along. Maybe Anara and Yusuf weren’t so different after all.

Walking into his dilapidated outhouse, Yusuf felt a certain chill creeping up around him. It was only June. Days and nights and the moments in between flowed into one another without the slightest hint of an impending storm.

Yusuf never stopped being his usual self – with his carefully careless charm, effortless intellectualism and opinionated stands. And she with her ceaseless affection, juvenile optimism and perpetual attempts to bridge the spaces that separated Yusuf and her. She, whose ideal day began with his sleepy voice and ended with the sound of his breath over the phone, was never too discerning. Even as a child, her parents feared her heart for being too naïve, too welcoming. Anara with her hair like a waterfall on fire, laughed heartily, loved earnestly and believed foolishly. Yusuf always knew her too well for her own good.

Distance makes one do things they always wanted to, but never did for fear of being witnessed. It provides a guilt ridden yet comforting veil under which all things indulgent vanish – for they never existed in the first place. You didn’t see it. It didn’t happen.

Every evening, Yusuf would run for miles on his agile feet. That man had stamina, but no strength. Bit by bit, Yusuf undid himself from what he had beautifully and patiently created and slowly created more distance than what existed between India and Paris. Carefully crafted words never gave Anara any fodder for suspicions or doubts and well planned defenses only left her feeling guilty for having questioned Yusuf in the first place. Yusuf may not have been strong, but his pride paved the way to protect his otherwise perfect image from getting tainted with all that he slipped under the veil.

Slowly but surely, Anara felt it too – the silent awkwardness where none existed, the glance that didn’t linger on her face anymore and the hands that didn’t reach for hers at night. Unlike Yusuf, Anara grew up on a loving dose of fairytales and ever after’s. She never stopped believing in the eternity of  emotions.

Anara was to arrive at dawn by a twelve hour flight and couldn’t get her excited nerves to calm down – she hadn’t seen Yusuf in two months, the longest they had even been apart. Sleep evaded Yusuf as he  tossed and turned in his bed in the basement, thinking of how to make the experience as civil and as  painless as possible. When he thought of Anara, there was a void where affection used to live. Love was

too strong a word now, maybe a year ago it would have been the right word, but today, it just wasn’t. Hoping to make time go by faster, he checked his watch eighteen times before the sheep finally started gliding over the fences.

Getting into his car, the day didn’t seem to augur too well for Yusuf – he was one hour from seeing Anara. That it was unnaturally grey and windy even at four in the morning did not play much of a part at that point. He gripped the steering wheel with a stern conviction; almost as if reaffirming the sharp sketches he had been drawing in his mind for the past few months and sipped on his coffee.

Oblivious to what was brewing ten thousand miles under her feet, Anara smiled as she thought of the trip they made to the southern beaches in India the year before. She remembered the pancake filled breakfasts and love filled days. ‘Yusuf’, the name that resounded in her entire being, would be with her in just a while. She had waited for three months to tell him the news in person - She was moving back to India in December. Just in time for his birthday. Nothing could go wrong now; the demonic distance couldn’t play havoc anymore, could it? It couldn’t.

The wait at the airport terminal seemed longer than ever before, partly because of Yusuf’s anxiety and partly because Anara’s flight was in fact 3 hours late. Yusuf was worried now – would he still be able to mouth the words as unemotionally and clinically as he had hoped? He had to, for he could no longer pretend to feel when unfeeling had taken over completely. He felt bad for Anara, for her knew her like no one else, but immediately justified everything in his mind by telling himself that she no longer captivated him like she did, her golden locks did not keep him up all night, thinking how lucky he was to have her. He no longer felt humbled when he held her in his arms. Yusuf just wanted to get over with the ordeal now. Luckily for him, at 11:11 am that grey morning, Anara along with 247 other homebound  people never came back home.

FADIA

What a beautiful mess she was, Fadia; as complicated as her curls. Nothing seemed to distract her from the pages she so tenderly caressed every afternoon. She frowned when she concentrated and smiled a half smile when the right words came tumbling onto the paper. I remember the day she fell asleep for a few minutes and woke up with an incredibly enchanting ink stained cheek.

It had been three years since Anara; three years of seeing her everywhere; endless nights waiting for delirious, nightmarish sleep. I couldn’t forgive myself even if I tried. But Fadia, she had such a forgiving look on her face, like she was at peace with all that inhabited her space. Just for that peace, I wish I could steal her away.

She signed when she flipped a page with evident satisfaction and sometimes looked outside the stained glass window. Did she know how the colors of the stained glass danced on her face? Up until that day, I felt my throat drying up at the mere thought of speaking to her, but walking up to her and uttering that name was enough to make me forget my previous inabilities. At first there was silence – but a comfortable silence, one that exists only in familiarity. Her cursive words on the pale yellow paper looked up at me just as she did and smiled.

Every day she would document a piece of her life onto those frayed pages while I sat

across the table from her, content in just ‘being’. She never asked why I was there and

I never felt the need to explain. Soon, Fadia became an escape for my troubled soul. She looked like a child sometimes – lost & vulnerable and then there were days when she seemed wise beyond her years. She still never said a word and I did not demand one. It was a comfortable companionship – one that didn’t need words – just hot cocoa.

The first time I spoke, I spoke for days at length. Fadia, with her chin cupped in her hand, listened intently. She never agreed or disagreed; she did not dole out advice, she just looked right into my eyes when I spoke. Sometimes I would bring photographs to share with her – I would sit and simply slide them across the table. Her dainty fingers pulled them closer and she almost always traced the faces she saw and gave me a warm, sad smile. Maybe she knew what it meant to lose something, someone.

In Fadia, I found a soul asylum; a comfortable spot I could rest my guild ridden head on. It was never love – it was only loneliness, mine and hers, intertwined so beautifully – mine in words and hers in those eyes. Yusuf spoke to passionately, like something stirred in the depths of his being. Poor boy, he really must have loved her; who wouldn’t? With dancing eyes and an honest happiness infused smile, it was difficult not to. Was his guilt justified now that it was too late? Would he have changed his mind if Anara had come back home? Maybe not. But I never knew how to tell him this and somehow I think he  knew.

There were days I could swear I saw tears in his eyes, but he was too much of a man to let them flow. His broad shoulders were probably not made to shrink and cry. With each passing day I felt Yusuf needed me more; but there was only so much I could give him. On some nights, I prayed for him with all my heart. He let down his guard when we met and often looked like a lost, bewildered child, waiting to be picked up and rocked gently to sleep. I wonder how much of my silence Yusuf understood; whenever seemed to complain about its presence.

Until today Yusuf never asked me anything; he only questioned life and its distorted logic. Just as it began to snow, he asked me what my name meant.  

Fadia – ‘The saviour’

The art of letting go

Letting you go in the moment I realize that I underestimated the length of the string and didn't hold on hard 

enough. Before i knew it, you were gone, gloriously. You, once mine. I watch until you are a speck of color, an accidental masterstroke in an imperfect sky.

As if finally having you wasn't bad enough, now i must pay, with every exhalation, the price of my luck. You owed me a few wrinkles, a couple of scars. Don't you want to leave any war wounds; take a hostage?

You had your sky, but was it not good enough if one end of your cloud was tied to my fingertip? You know when you grower smaller and weaker, you'll come closer? When you feel the air is sucked out of your lungs, it is in my arms you will descend?

I promise there will be regret in my touch. Will I feel like home to you? Will you then remember, the life i breathed in you was my own?

The story of a spice box

 To my colorless days,

You added your subtle saffron hue.

And now, in dreary nights,

I remember the taste of you.

To my insipid imagination,

Add your colors, the ones the world never knew,

And now, your fragrance lives on,

Although hidden in boxes, I know where to find you.

To faded memories of times gone by,

You add your secrets, spicy but true.

Carved from history and tradition,

We are not too different, me and you.