No more death, please


Little deaths follow my shadows.

Corpses of high hopes,

Funerals of pleasure,

Stinking murders of us.

But take a knife

Tell me to kill again.

The flavours of death don’t confuse me

Babe,

I simply crave for the cooking

I remember when times were fresh

Memories were brewing

Our special places were savoured.

Now all I see is a microwave.

It stares me in the face,

Like those horror movies

And I’m screaming inside

The pleasure is too vivid,

The moment too real.

I’m not ready to feel it again

History is frozen in the present.

And I’m not ready for warmth, today

Rewind, rewind, rewind

Play, but just don’t.

Let’s move to the future please,

Stale is not worth us

I want to breathe again.

Fresh air, Mumbai.

I want home again.

Give me home again.

 

A letter for the love of my life

I wish forgetting you was like cleaning an easy stain on my favourite shirt,

But you don’t stop the affect like a good stain.

You’re more like the dark rectangle on my wall where that photo frame once was:

Impossible to merge with the present.

The dust on the bookshelves reminds me of the beautiful care in you

And so does the empty bed.

You never forget to leave an impression, don’t you?

 

You always had that style

Ruling over my heart in college too

You stained my soul with love.

Once there, painted all over with colour

Marriage, kids, living together.

 

People look at me today like a sad old man subject to life’s miseries

But darling I still have that poetry in me you would love.

I still go to Natural’s for a midnight treat but now I order only one scoop,

I wish you were there to finish another

I promise I wouldn’t have complained like I usually did when you were here.

I wish you could come back

 

Here I am, doing it again,

I told my doctor I wouldn’t wish unreasonable things:

For you to be back and for me to be the same without you.

Sorry.

 

So, getting to the point.

I’m writing in memory of the lovely girl with whom I aged and faced life.

The girl that showed me how wonderful life can get

Even when it just doesn’t seem to get any better

I’m promising her that I’m going to respect that and learn from it

I’m going to fight depression and stop being a cliché

(We never liked the mainstream anyway.)

My days are still as tinted with you

As they were before.

I still love you and forgive me for talking about trying to remove your stain.

Your stain is in the deepest part of what makes me the person I am.

Your stain is a reminder of beauty-

Impossibly pure beauty- that once garnished my life.

Yes, I have become a romantic as you suspected I would

(Remember when I would laugh at cheesy posts like these? Well, life pays back.)

And I thank you for that.

 

Yours forever.

 

(I’m still jealous that you got to know what death is like, before I did

And yes, yes, I will stop flirting with the young lady that stays across the road:

I never meant anything serious,

She still misses your morning chai.)

 

~~~

Inspired by the emotions of the main character in the movie ‘Madaari’, for his lost child.

Thoughts before a journey

Hey beautiful,

Today, I just want to talk about life, unlike my usual posts here. It’s pretty queer, the situation. My life is going pretty good, and some might even say that it’s amazing but I don’t feel amazing, lately. I think it’s the mixed emotion of feeling nostalgic and a little scared and excited and useless.

Let me give you some backstory here. I am 18 years old, and going to move to my college’s residential campus in 22 days. I have never lived away from home, without my parents for longer than a week so the mere situation freaks me out. I’m really looking forward to the entire independence of it all, but the nervousness right now is like the 2 minutes before a performance.

I have got to know of such amazing people that will be at college so it is really exciting but then again, will I make a good group of friends? Then again, is having a group of friends more important than having many, different friends like I have had till now? I don’t know.

The concept of me living on my own interests me because at home, I’m a messy person and those who suffer from this are really only my family;I don’t mind the mess as long as I clean it soon enough. Will this magically change once I’m in college and my frustrated grandmother doesn’t clean up my bed? I don’t know.
Yesterday, I went to buy some stuff for college and amidst the soap holder and cleaning brush, the shopkeeper asked me if I wanted a rolling pin to make dough, for rotiI felt like I was settling down in a new house or something. “No, OF COURSE not, I don’t need a rolling pin. I’m going to college, not settling down,” I told him, half-scared, half-amused.

Apart from the social factor of living somewhere away from home, the academics in my college excites me. Being the competitive person I am, I’m waiting to see the classroom atmosphere of my college. Yet, I have this lingering debate in my head-what if I’m not good enough for it, or even to compete with it? What if my mental faculties have a dead end somewhere? I rebuttal this with my belief that if really want to do well at something, I will never really give up. Hopefully, this belief stays in those moments of doubt.

I also feel a little useless at this point because I wish I did more with my time. Vacations are “meant” for chilling out but really, what am I doing with these moments of my life when I’m binge-watching Community and eating Chocos till 3 in the morning? I’m doing a few projects but I feel like I’m not doing enough. Maybe the solution is that I need to start journaling again. Yeah I need to do that.

So this is where I am at, standing at the edge of my bed, looking at my unopened empty suitcase, waiting to see if I’m ready to take on the excitement and leave the nervousness for a few days before I leave. Holding one emotion of hope for a good journey sounds like a good idea for me right now.

Yeah, I think I will open my cupboard and start filling the suitcase now.

Until next time,
Charuvi.

The storm I hated.

Date of post: 15th Jan

“You know what,”
I typed furiously.
“There is a drop of water that you may see
and I may see
And I will see it,
Yet you will not.”

Only, I didn’t type. It was a thought, blown by the storm of my conscience, to the front of my mind. It was the agitation of a revolt. Though similar to others I had had, this was new at the moment.

And at the moment I felt like fighting. Fighting in the wild sea with everything but the force behind it’s wilderness. I couldn’t find the force, you see. I loved the sea too intensely to see its reality. And it wrecked me. For my love was failing me every minute.

I always thought that I would want to be one of those the sea loved. Those pristine wholesome fish, living in clear water, removed from human lives. Yet somewhere along the lines I learnt to accept my position as the rusted, isolated ship. The ship that was nothing more than one entangled, broken mess on the side.

Oh and how I admired those pristine, wholesome fish. I saw how they charmed the sea. I wished I was them for a minute. But they did make me feel like I was worthless. They made me feel like I was not admired, all those times when the sea forgot I was there.

Still, hear, hear all of the world- I did feel like one of those that the sea loved-when the sea did recognise the bond between. Only recognise I say, not accept or embrace.

So then who am I to blame for the storm between us? The sea, the fish or I?

Maybe I am to blame the mirror that deceived me: my pristine, wholesome self, which was beautiful in it’s own way- just, in a galaxy where I saw a drop of water in all it’s importance, and the sea plainly saw a vast, undefinable blue stretch.

~~~

I had written this story as a metaphor for a relationship that saw no reciprocity from one end. The narrator expresses her angst for she loves someone who doesn’t love her back and wishes that her love could see the storm that she could see-the torture of his loving behaviour.

Mirrored Battles

“Look at you,

That unnatural tall figure

Broad shoulders, big breasts,

Bulging stomach and unshaven legs,

Trying on clothes that don’t fit

One after another after another.

What do you think?

Months of binging will result in prettiness?

You are not who you were.

But were you ever anything but an imperfect dish

No-you’re uncooked and rejected.

Look at you again,

Rash mouth and ideal thoughts

Scared to implement your “beliefs”?

But the fearlessness that I see,

Is that a mirage?

Are you a mirage?

You believe you are great,

But are you?

One betrayal and will you crumble?

Will you go crying into that hole?

Is that, being perfect?

No.

You’re an unfinished sculptor and a poem left hanging

Shoulders droop and bellies flop

When they go home and out of pretty clothes

So is it all for a show?

Is it all for this person you wish to be?

Do you own your personality or is it an act you played to be perfect?

You’re inconsistent.

Look at you opening that packet of biscuits after ten dresses didn’t fit.

How utterly incapable of resolve are you?

How disgraceful and how unshapely

You’re just doing everything wrong.

Would you be friends with you if you met you?

Or would you look at her and say

“This girl is putting on a show of epitomy.”

You’re incapable and deserve nothing,

Not even words

Not even this poem

Nothing.”

Said my mirror to me and I

Died a little bit inside in my battle,

Of perception and reality.

 

Days like this.

Hey beautiful,

I met my best friends today but it felt like something different. It felt like we peeled back another layer between us. We watched an unconventional movie and everyone laughed- like they’d understood what had passed and moved on with the future. How big of a thing that is, I hope they’d measured. We’d grown together in that time-as people in a relationship.

Looking back at our personalities, it’s amazing that we can grow together. There are some things uncomfortable but we’re getting past that. We’re getting past habits and expressions of love and schedules. We’re helping each other out and I’m grateful for that kind of a relationship.

I went with one of them to the beach after and watched the waves crash while talking about dreams. We spoke about what we’re doing and what we want to do. We talked about nature, out of all the pure things to talk about. The day altogether honestly felt like it had slept on a soft cloud gently. It felt beautiful.

Later, I went home and laughingly removed the sand from my shoes. I kept the shoes back on the stand but on another day soon, I’ll find the sand of my memories, preciously remove them from my present and keep myself ready for another beautiful day, embedded in my future.

Thank you for these memories.

Yours,
Charuvi.

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Me, Jahanvi and Sanjukta (from the right) at an event a few days a week ago!

RED

Red was the prohibited colour of my childhood

No red on projects,
No red on books.
No red on bodies,
No red on looks.

We avoided the red pen,
The teachers focused on the same.
And there went our childhood,
With all of society to blame.

Then came college,
The red peeking through with shame.
We danced and sang,
And allowed red in the frame.

Talks of the prohibited,
Cultural identifications,
Epiphanies, oh simple epiphanies,
And genuine rebellions.

Now red is ours,
Ours to write with,
Ours to hold,
Ours to wear with pride,
Ours to mould.

Red is ours,
After years of captivity
After rules; obedience
But it is not the red of dictators anymore,
It is the red of our Freedom
It is the red of our Youth.

~~~

I wanted to express, through this poem, how I had to rediscover the colour RED because I had lost it in my childhood-due to the narrow-mindedness of society And RED for me is being confident and bold and everything that adulthood implies. Red lipstick, red dress, red hair, a beautifully red attitude is what I now embrace and I am proud of it

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