P.S. I Miss You

I envy the madness
That grips your lovers,
The mirth that throbs
In every fibre of their being
When they hear your name,
The ceaseless ecstasy that
Oozes out from their bodies
In form of sweat
When they dance to your chants.

They have different faces, colours
And shapes
But one identity—
Your servants—eternally and joyously.
Everything else is
False.
Everything else is
Binding.
Everything else is
Poison.

 The nectar of your love
Flowing in their veins
Surges upon being invoked
By your names.
The blissful frenzy
Augments
With each passing moment

It is potent and alive—
Yes, it has a life of its own—
Looking alertly for stoic souls
To stir and consume.

The ingenuous prey
Is caught unawares.
It all starts with
Shake of a limb.
Then the body quakes
Then tongue utters
Your name...

And the battle is lost.
You then smile
At the helpless soul
For now it has lost control
Over itself.


It is that helplessness
That I yearn.
It is much better
Than the one
That I feel now.

What would it take
To resurrect that naiveté?
Where did I lose it?
And when?

It is on nights
Such as this
That the loss stings.
And it stings hard.

There goes no day
When I don’t think of you.
For some you are a part
Of life;
For me you were
My life.

Why did you then, O love!
Go mute
On questions I asked?
Why did you then
Withdraw when I needed
You the most?

Was it one of your many ploys?
Was I just one of your many toys?
Who’s to be blamed, you or I?
I cannot say.
Have you pushed me farther away?
Or pulled me closer
To You?
To The Truth?
I cannot say.

We may’ve grown estranged;
We may’ve grown apart;
I can’t but admit though
“Thou art my art”

PS: I miss you.

   

Express Yourself...

Sometimes I wonder how aptly this punch line of a telecom service provider fits our Indian life-style. Let's face it: we are inherently so effusive and expressive that at times we even forget that what might appear to us as a natural outburst of emotions might be the cause of utter consternation to the others.

We’ve all been through been through the agony of being stuck in a traffic-jams caused by the pompous baraats (wedding processions), wherein bunch of heavily decked ladies, who refuse to go easy on the jewellery and jazzy saaris despite the hot and humid tropical climate of ours, and a bunch of over-zealous men, whose dance steps even a Hrithik Roshan cannot match up to, blithely make merry all the way without caring a damn about all the chaos they are creating for the other passers-by. They keep on coaxing the other equally garishly dressed spectators to join them and add to this pool of crazy dancers as they claim the streets and roads reveling in presupposed marital-bliss of the soon-to-be couple.

What about the characteristic Indian burp that is discerned to be the ultimate marker of a satiated tummy? Let me warn you: if you do not follow this ritual of ceremonial burping then the host might pile up your plate with additional pooris and matar-paneer saying, “aap toh kuch khatey hi nahi!“. Yes, burping and spitting are our birth-rights and we will exercise them to the fullest.

It is said God can  intercept your deepest thoughts and prayers even if you do not articulate them. Huh? What nonsense? We Indians are far from being subtle. We do not like the idea of one-on-one conversations with the divine. We would rather make it a conference call and force everyone to join. What do you mean you don’t want to? Who cares? How can God hear us if we don’t croon using microphones (how I wish the quality was Dolby surround sound)? The jag-raatas are our answers to all-night parties. Of course the Goddess loves the kitschy Bollywood numbers. Why else would we decide to set holy lyrics to Pritam's and Anu Malik's tunes (whose originality in turn is equally dubious). So what if you have three mosques in the same locality? It's the right of all three mosques to inform the people about the time to pray. What, the sounds from all three mosques are overlapping making it cacophonic? So what? Deal with it! Each imam is accountable to the God for his own mosque after all.

Try and compare the eloquently mourning aunties at our condolence ceremonies, who I can bet barely know the deceased, but will wear the most melancholy expressions on their faces as if the person who passed away was dearest to them, with the placid condolence ceremonies of the west, where even the most bereaved of the family members appear gathered and composed and meticulously “suited up”  (as Barney would say).

All these situations and many more, essentially highlight our proclivity of being able to express ourselves without any restraints. It can be befuddling, annoying or amusing, but it is certainly and deeply Indian. So enjoy the madness of being an Indian and go out there and express yourself.... :)