Fossilised

The hopes you had raised
that evening
still stir occasionally
in the dark closets
of my memory.

Your words and phrases
punctuated by smiles
and twitching eyebrows
still breathe somewhere
between the pages
of my notebook.

Yes, you were one of those
who made it to those pages
and will remain there
fossilised,

gathering vividness
every time the pages flutter
in the winds of my solitude,

recreating that muggy evening
when my heart had danced a
secret dance,
unseen and soundless,

reminding me of your
oblivion then
and thereafter.

Oblivion-- so precious
whose absence
would have made me feel
vulgar.

The hopes you had raised
that evening
still stir occasionally
in the dark closets
of my memory,

but now I have learnt
the art of being deaf
to their pleas.

They were too demanding;
I was too inadequate.

~ aviD

A Kiss Is Not Just That

To call it just a kiss
would be unjust
For it wasn't just that.

It wasn't just our lips
that met;
Nor just our tongues
that battled.

It was my having you,
And your having me.
Not simply having me,
But having me,
My I,
My self;

It was my having you
in those moments
as flickery as the
candle flame
that flickered
as we kissed.

I discovered
a whole new
You!
I tasted the coffee that'd
burnt your tongue
this morning.
My tongue sympathised
with yours.

I chanced upon
that fibre of bhutta--
stuck adamantly between
the spaces of your teeth--
you'd just had.

I sensed my name that'd
rolled off your tongue
ever so tenderly
before you'd leaned forward
to kiss
Me.

It still sat there,
It sat there still.

There were the invectives too
that you'd used to curse
a reckless fellow driver
while driving on the road.

The fine words of praise
you'd showered upon me
clung to the wall of your mouth
and sweetened mine
as we kissed
under the moon
that looked like
a large water-melon wedge
coated with fine and delicate silver foil
juicy and edible.

Then there were also
those three treacherous words,
hidden in a dark corner
of your mouth,
waiting to pop out
as soon as the kiss
were to end.

"I love you!"
You would have said,
had I not continued
kissing you ceaselessly.

To call it just a kiss
would be unjust;
For this kiss averted
a disaster too!

~ aviD

Blankness

And the cursor on the screen blinked. And blinked. He stared at the blank page. And stared some more.

 Angai had thought it would be one of those nights when words would just ooze out of him, but nothing did. For the last week or so, he had been sensing something swash and gurgle inside of him, but utterly defiant to take shape. Vaporous and violent, it continued to swash. There was something wanting to come out. In a form...more cohesive and tangible. In form of words. What was it?

Then there were these list-your-ten-favourite book posts that kept appearing every ten minutes. These people! It was like making your love life public. It was like making a list of ten people you have bedded and then pasting it all over the city. Of course, he was being too uncharitable and testy. He did not have any lists, grossly under-read person that he was.

Samar had phoned. It had been five days—no, last Saturday it was—since. They’d spoken after nearly four months. Yet there was so much warmth in his voice when he spoke with Samar. What was the best thing about this equation? The fact that it could never fructify in to anything, perhaps. That brought immense pain and relief at once. Neither of them expected anything out of one and other. Not even a meeting. Samar talked nonsense, as usual, while he drove back home. He hadn’t found a girl to marry yet. It just doesn’t work out somehow, he had said. Angai had made fun of Samar’s advancing age. “You are way past your marriageable age—what other choice you have than marrying me!”

They had both laughed. No, he thought, that was the best thing about them. They did not take each other or themselves seriously. There was always an air of irreverence that wreathed them whenever they interacted with each other. Yet there was something so genuine about...

There had been a few others who had been uncommonly kind to him. They were ready to him indulge in all manners possible. But he felt it would be betrayal of sorts if he were to let them on. There was something that did not click. What was it, he wondered. There were many, yet there was none. Nothing. Blankness as blank as the page he kept staring at.

He had come to realise that he had a weakness for a peculiar combination of grace and gravitas. It was not physical beauty per se that he desired singularly. It was this odd mixture of elegance and gravitas that he kept trying to seek in one being after another.

Was that Shubh’s new display picture? Oh, yes it was he. Such cuteness! Did Angai just giggle? Or sigh? Shubh walked in Angai’s life three years late. Had Angai discovered Shubh three years ago, they would have been married by now, Angai was positive. He was everything Angai could have ever asked for. Everything and maybe more, but three years ago. The last three years stood between them as if three lifetimes. These three years made a radically new person out of Angai, so much so that Angai of three years ago would not recognise that of present, never mind like him. Why would then, Shubh, the pious and pristine vaishnav soul that he was, ever like Angai? Impulsively, Angai shared Shubh’s picture with a friend on whatsapp and appended tags such as #TheVaishnavGuy  #ThePerfectMatchThatCouldNeverBe

Some people have their favourite words. Words, too, have favourite people. Angai was Irony’s favourite person. What stood between Angai and happiness, if ever there was such a thing, was Angai himself. But he could not part with himself, now, could he? Of course not. How could he lie? Lie to his own soul...

Yet another my-top-ten-books post. Books had become something he had been obsessing over of late. That’s how it has always been. He has always had to have something to cling to; something to pin hopes to; something to make a show of; something to romanticise. Always! Different things over all these years—but the same tendency. He still did not have a top ten list...ironically.

Maybe writing about it would help, he thought. But when he sat to write, the cursor blinked. And blinked. He stared at the blank page. And then stared some more.