Of being nothing and more

I am nothing and half a housewife. Thanks to the house-help. So I have enough time to lavish on the internet. It's a luxury, few of my breed can afford. I'm grateful.

Now for a reality-check. After reading the snappy introductions of various writers/authors on the web, I wondered how I would introduce myself when my first novel came about. From corporate honchos to scholarly aficionados, there's a sub-world out there, scribbling and scrabbling away at their creative nuts

(the walnut shaped thing inside our skull?). Are college degrees and achievements-of-leisure, qualifiers that help you to be included in the may-be-considered list? Would my introduction have an impact on the future of my book? Before that, would the introduction itself win over the icy-cold hearts of the bigwigs in the business and make them want to know me more, know my book more? If everyone is writing fancy introductions and fancier blurbs, would a homemaker's labour of love, induce enough excitement? Drifting in a sea of accomplished faces, what hope could a non-trophy wife nurse of making it to the land of Yo. I don't know. All shots in the dark. However, it does make me wonder how important is it to market a certain image in this business of make-believe?

Recently, I happened to read a novel written by one of the supposedly fastest-selling authors of India and published by Penguin. Despite the disgust it caused for lack of any beautiful literary moments, I held on right till the end, just wanting to know what is it that made it so appealing to the publisher. The sexual content is floosy bait, which I doubt would make the sharks bite.The story was so set in bollywood-style shenanigans that it only seemed like an amalgam of bits and pieces of hackneyed commercial Hindi cinema. The only thing that added any flavour, or crude spice perhaps, was the element of incest that may have, on a very repugnant level, generated interest. Well, whatever works! It's sitting there on the shelves, sticking out its coated tongue at me.

The point here is, what makes the chin to turn up, eyes to pop and cause an erection...er...of the backbone. Of course, way before one thinks of a literary masterpiece, one needs to think of how to position and project that masterpiece and its maker, and create a collective reading mind that would be ready to devour it without too much analysis.

I met a new author recently and asked him a very obvious question. What was your journey like, from the moment the prize-winning story idea caught you, right till the time you signed your first copy? The answer was dismally spontaneous. "A downward graph," he quipped. "However, I must admit that while my entire personality may have undergone a skewed change, what people admire today is the refined, polished version; even if unreal and exaggerated; of what I and my writing was intended to be."

I didn't believe him. To me, it was just an exaggerated account of the pains of writing for the business. I have written my first novel too and am awaiting my moment. Of course, I may have lost a few friends during the process ( the ones who claimed to be closest to me and gave up on me during my darkest hours of creative-stupor), gained oodles of weight by spending back-breaking hours at my PC, and consequently ran into some rough terrain in my marriage, but it's part of the no-pain no-gain equation. And there's the satisfaction of having brought out the best in me, at whatever expense.

Wait....the phone is ringing. Be right back!

....

....

....

....

....

O.K. So, it was my literary agent. One of the reputed ones in the business. He just bit my head off and suggested a complete turn around of the story. Not enough sex, not enough scheming, conniving villains and not enough tear-jerking moments of repressing pain for the protagonist, is what he said. Besides, the writing is too literary for public consumption. What would make it sell? "Simplicity," I replied, rather simply. He didn't think the conversation deserved a polite, formal end. I wondered if my life, as a housewife, was also rooted by the same monotony as that of my novel? Is simplicity my dead-end too?

I know, eventually, I might trade simplicity for non-linear play and sensuality for crude sexuality. Whether in my book or life and in which, first; I don't know. Because that's what works. In books as well as in life. And that's what sells. And at the end of the day, I do wish to get published and have people reading my books. So, that's it.

And yes, I think I know what my introduction might be.

- A vain-brained prude,

who is dying to exude.

Oh, it's battering hail on my window-sill. Someone heard!

Ek khyaal

क्यूँ है ज़रूरी, दर्द में लिखना,

दीवारों से बातें करके 

फिर सुबह गुलज़ार सा दिखना

टूटे बिखरे सपनों पर फिर

उम्मीद की चादर बुनना

रात की गहरी जम्हाई को 

चाय की प्याली  से ढकना 

खुशियों की दीवार बनाकर

सीध में चलते तो अच्छा था

काँटों को रंगदार बनाकर

गुंचे चुनते तो अच्छा था 

 क्यूं था ज़रूरी 

बिन बातों का

जाल बनाकर ग़ुम  हो जाना

क्यूं है ज़रूरी

हर माज़ी  का साया बनकर पीछे आना

कंधे पर सर को फिर रखकर

 कानों में बेज़ार सा गाना 

बिन बातों, उन् जज्बातों को
झाड़ गिराते तो अच्छा था

घर, कूचे, गलियों, बागों में

हाथ छुड़ाते तो अच्छा  था

जब दिल था मुक़द्दस 

पाक थे रिश्ते 

तब ही मुड़ जाते तो अच्छा था
लौट के आये  बस इस बाबत 
वोह मिल जाए जो सच्चा था
बचपन ने  जो नोच के खाया 
भोला सा वो इक बच्चा था! 

Monday and I

It's Monday. Again. Freaky, Stalking Monday. And not the loving kind that powers your pride. 

Nor the one that keeps building your self-esteem by sending you floral notes throughout your love story with it. Quite contrarily, it feeds on nefarious mind-games. The ones that bring to attention, the sins of the indulgent weekend and ghosts of unfinished tasks, to be confronted in the coming week. And of course, it's not alone. Being the shrewd social net-worker that it is, it fetches ample support from your boss, your house-help, a gluttonous electricity meter and your I'm-so-miffed-with-you personal trainer. Over the glorious hangover, one is forced to think about chewing on story ideas, submissions, manuscript polishing, grocery shopping, paying fees and bills and of course, looking for lost buttons ( consequence of the drink-and-play habit ); and if there still is some left-over time, wallowing in misery for not being able to having gotten all of it out of the way with the previous hangovers. However, there is one good thing about this stalker. Unlike most others, it doesn't creep up surreptitiously to your shoulder . Instead, it announces its arrival in a grand tableau-kind of a manner by way of the post-its disfiguring your PC's face. Strong enough reminders to acknowledge and celebrate its presence. And like an ignorant/naive person-being-stalked, if you don't happen to give it the acknowledgement that it works its "week-ass" off for, then there's no reason to sit and moan over the inflicted pain, rightfully gained. Monday has feelings too, you know. Love it. Or let it lose it.

The Journey

Never thought I could

I did

When least thought I would

I hid

Broken, buffered, shaped and honed

By the very force

That bids all

to an ever-changing

breathing space

To find some form

To find a face

Hurtling self; I stopped

looked behind

Then shut my eyes and stared

At crevices bared

I carried on.

Then ripples in the water

Caused

The rise, the fall

However small

 Is disturbing

Leading out and away

I caused it all.

From within,

The gallant source

The quiet retreat

Is there a way

 To let me form

a stoic homeland steep?

As If at all!

Yet, I believe

And carry on.

The rise and fall

Works just one way

Carry on!

Change is good

And here to stay.

I continue to flail

My arms and self

Yearning to spread

The fire within

Out and away

To melt the seams

I know, see, realize-

Once in the watery works

 of life

At the foothills

that ebb and flow

Fall and grow

The self that makes me

The Me

In a sordid grey array

But oh, the water breaks it all-

The high, the low

The mountains tall

Carry on and away

I’m just a pebble anyway.

Calmness

Calmness

Is not something I seek,

Chase or hold

Or wish to acquire

Through brisk minutes of breathing

In induced labour

I have tried

and failed

to buy it

from a guru

and the promises of

nimble, able hands

or from the fiery contents

of a bottle

Nor is it something

Begotten

Of a response

To a scathing remark

And then

 having shown them

how extraordinary

my perceived achievements

pretend to make me

Perhaps

I could know

how to wear it

Through regressive insights

Yes?

Nay,

However that may

Take me through the storm

And to the eye?

I walk through it all.

It’s necessary.

As the delusion of calmness

Clouds my mind

And asks for more

While chasing after

restless squirrels

In a viscous park.

The balls of fur,
prying thoughts

Scramble up and down

The mulberry trees

Looking, seeking

With cautious eyes

Tasting, picking

And stashing away

The bitter with the sweet

To sort and consume later

When it’s dark and cold.

Would it come by

If I were to stop

And sit by the pond

On a bench

And watch them all

-Balls of fur

And furious movement?-

They would continue

In their effort

To chase, stash and save

And bear upon the onlooker

An imprint

Of  motion

In peripheral calmness

Perhaps I’m there

Perhaps not.

Can I define it

If I’m walking through it?

Can I find it

If I’m not seeking it?

Can I experience

Without knowing it?

Or is it possible

to touch it

Like the dew

On a morning blossom

Or the hue

Of a ripening cherry

On a tree before its autumn

And then let go

For the feeling to sail

In and out

With my breath

Over and over again

Through the cold and the dark

onto the sunny warmth of Spring?

I’m ponderous

And yet,

I do not wish to seek,

Chase or hold

Calmness or thought

I think I will,

For this moment,

 just let me be.

Desire

Wake me...

wake me when the Sun
in your eyes
goes down

Wake me
in the twilight
of your summer dreams
and chase
the crack of dawn
to a new newness

Bring me
to this world
with labouring hope
when the golden dust
of half-lived years
settles on your face

Push me
through the nettled web
of rose-lit night
and moon-struck day
it's not too late
to cultivate...

Hold me
at your finger tips
and let the furrows
in the golden dust
fill up with
your candescent smile
it's not too late...

I rest,
in you
the seed of life
of liquid threads that bind
your past
to my future

Ignite me
in your womb, and
let me
show you the way
and be

your glowworm...
your unborn...
Desire.

Today I walked on Autumn Leaves

Today,

the morning was different from night

there was light

as the Sun became the Sun

and the dove’s flight

had wings of courage!

Today,

the morning was different from night

as the kettle whistled a happy tune

and the song of the bird

on the neighbour’s window

was far from cacophony

yes, there was light

inside and outside.

Today,

the breeze

wanted an identity

bigger than the wind

a name more memorable

a life more forceful

a turn…more eventful

and was thus,

softer, lighter, gentler!

Today,

there was music

in horns and the hawker’s call

there was endearment

in the baby’s cries

heard through the fall

of the pestle on the mortar

No clamour

in rushing, shuffling feet

I heard stillness

in the chase of thoughts..

..as I stood

under Kailashpati,

clad in the motley foliage

of that flowering tree

I saw myself

in love..

in pity..

in spirituality/madness,

..or senility!

Whatever it was…

..it was surreal

In being just real!

The past left me

like the last breath of an aching life,

makes a sighing exit.

The leaves gathered around me,

falling, gliding and then resting

in that very moment

that I let go

of the future

from my eyes.

That moment

the Sun, the Breeze, the Flight

touched me

and I touched in quiescence

my moment ground

with crunching lightness

as I walked

on autumn leaves

Today,

I found my moment ground

as I walked on autumn leaves!