In the Meantime (2022-2023) 

Part: 1 

Morning comes stealthily, silently…I ruminate

To Morning 

Morning, the particular time of the day, reminds me of the things that I have not completed on the previous day. I feel guilty for not finishing up all the deeds that I have promised myself to do in due time. I feel anxious. I also feel happy for allowing myself to do the things that are not stranger and new. Making oneself introduced to the new things may take a huge amount of patience and enthusiasm. And here, I am resting on my sofa contemplating over the things that I have to make myself acquainted with. Sadly, the contagious flow of procrastination leaves me in such a state where the human beings become engrossed in the whirlpool of doubts and self- denial. The long black traces of procrastination entangle my body and transform my soul into its food. Is this overthinking? Am I doing it at present? By the way, what am I doing?

Long poem

Part 1

Every morning

I wake up

I feel the sudden rush of blood

Around my eyes

As if some fishes want to come out

Of my eyes 

To make a room 

In the adjacent areas of my nose.

My waterlogged nose fails to

Feel the pain that is engulfing

Half of my day,

In the evening, I seek

For the rest that may erase my agony;

Alas, it intensifies my ached body

That is unsurpassable.

I hope for that one thing

Peace-

Nothing else;

What do you expect from an ailing soul?

At noon, I open the window pane

To let the rain shower on my body,

Hundred years have passed

And I am looking at the lake;

Some migratory birds roam,

The fountain speaks

Like whistling wind;

Along with them, a voice appears 

Like a grotesque shadow;

Seeing their movements, I wish

I can travel to future

To see if I am feeling the same,

Motionless, 

Staring at the blank ceiling.

Once upon a time, 

I drove an insect away 

From my place

Like some house inhabitants do the same things

To some guests.

Nobody is staying there

More than one minute,

It is only me, God and my paper,

I am exchanging emotional words

Not a series of outburst,

A rendezvous,

Maybe,

Before I tranquilize my body

And pacify my eyes

At night.

Part 2

Opening up the drawer

Of her yellow room,

She takes out the revolver

To shoot at her head

To say adieu to all the blues

Imprinted on her body and mind,

She feels 

She is possessed by an evil spirit

That disturbs her sleep,

It makes a pact with a venomous worm

That often tries to come out from her ears.

She is ready with her gun

To press the trigger,

A bird with a blue tail

Singing in her hall

Without knowing the next,

Her eyes meet her tail

A rain starts to fall.

The Morning breeze

Morning breeze is like 

Some silenced sound

Emitting out from mouth

And then going back 

To mouth

To act like a balm 

On some unnamed bruises 

Received from life.

It is unadulterated 

Like the laugh of 

The young ones

During morning 

After their gigantic sleep 

At night.

22. 12. 2022

A morning bird’s conversation with its bruised body

My body is a glass that holds my spirit. My body is not entirely broken and bruised. It is not smooth though it works like an ever enthusiastic teenager. Most of the time, I stand in front of the mirror to have dialogues with my body, to listen to what it wants to express. Secretly. Silently. Loudly. It has its voices. I cannot define its multiple voices that rise up like smoke, and get assimilated into air. I look at the reflection on the mirror. I look at my own selves, my own body. I try to own my body, but it is ungraspable. Yeah. I can touch my body; I can feel the pain, acne. I can sense the mood of my body. 

Since childhood, I have a deep sense of inferiority complex that centres on body issues. My paradoxical mind makes me realize that my body is a fragile glass. In my blood, I start feeling the gush of insecurities. Insecurities of not being able to erase the bruises. I open the almirah and look at the stacks of it only to get vanquished by my own thoughts. 

Without any shame and shyness, I can admit that sometimes, I carry on conversation with my body. It is like a page, and you are turning over the pages of the book. The book tries to capture your attention. Sometimes, it becomes successful. Sometimes, it does not. Attention is a fickle entity. It has wings so it flies away.  But, my eyes are the ones that restore my attention for a long period of time. I blink. I look at my own eyelashes. Eyelashes are not big enough to be used as the cover of a hut. Surely, big enough to cover up my sadness, pain, coyness and happiness. The dark circles around my eyes make me compare between the stimulating, ever mysterious black hole and the unused well of my ancestral home. I carry on conversation with my eyelashes. It opens its petals only to give me vision. Life happens at the intersection of pause and action. Stillness fuels movement. Movement demands stillness. Similarly, my body seeks for it. Therefore, it takes rest. It takes rest for a while. In the meantime, it ponders over something like the length of my hair, smell of eyeballs. Having conversation with my own body does not make me feel guilty. It crosses miles after miles of fear and insecurity to pursue dialogues. I wait to get reply from my belly, navel. I believe that navel is the centre of the cosmos or the miniature of the entire world. It is spiral like the human existence. It is so spiral that it cannot unbind it. Unbinding this thing needs patience and time. 

You can start conversation with your newly acquired body on shape, colour that become the reason behind the act of stigmatizing, belittling and shaming. But, you are wordless at that time. You start mumbling. When you grow up, you look at it as God’s gift. You become less harsh on your body, but you carry on your conversation. Maybe, you want answers. Why thin? Why skinny bones? Why long eyelashes? Why brown pupils? Just why and why. You float in the pool of why(s) and what(s) and you cannot fathom its depth. You have shark like teeth that can destroy your own body. Thoughts are like sharks with sharp teeth. It engulfs itself if you think too much. It will do destruction on the bodies. You stop pondering over the things that feel you fragile. You let yourself float. You free yourself from the clutches of ‘what if’ and ‘could have been.’ You roll your eyes. Rain of blood comes down from your forehead. It is a mode of self- destruction. Rain of blood is the extreme outcome of anxiety. You stop stressing and give your eyes a rest. You cry. Your skin starts glowing. 

Body is just like the tree. If you water it, it will grow. It will outstretch its branches. Nerves are like the thin, very thin branches of the trees. They intertwine with each other, and create a sculpture inside your body. Even, your body is the sculpture. The end product. Who is the sculptor of your body? The symmetrical lines, the asymmetrical curves, the toes- all construct your shape. 

The 24 years old promises herself that she will overcome her fears, insecurities. Little by little. One by one. Otherwise, my body will not grow. I am the one who can allow my body to grow. I stand and look at my image. Image of what? Obviously, images of my body. 

17.03.2023

A town girl’s adventure of mind: Seeking refuge and freedom in the morning

It is the not the story of my paternal aunty who finds a deepest friendship with the trees. Her morning starts with the act of nurturing the plants. It is the story of all the aunties, uncles who find refuge in the mid of the plants. Being an oxymoronic soul by nature, I always wonder what will be my exact refuge, an unbreakable bond, a shelter with warmth and charms. If my adventurous attitude seeks for the temperament of the city, my soul demands symphony, a pure bliss and aesthetics. When people ask me about my favourite tourist spots, unfortunately, I can’t answer. My mind blocks my brain for a moment to reciprocate. I know that deep down, I am like water. Always moving, changing shapes and feelings depending on the container. Be it an earthen pot or a plastic water bottle. Am I situational? Do I rely on my instincts and the circumstances? Should I be blamed? Refuge is a feeling; refuge can be the things. Writing, gardening, cooking, travelling, paintings- anything that shuts down the cacophony of the world becomes my refuge. It is something that unearths the melody and drags it out of the noise. Germination happens when everything is at stake. Everything is in the chaos.

I live in a bright town that never fails to hype me up and calm me down when necessity arises. Her love for flowers is synomous to her love for stitching. She does embroidery on the clothes making beautiful figures, shapes of flowers and animals. She weaves her poetic worlds of animal and bird images. Birds are not born to be tamed. They are born to be free. Free from the onslaught of the paws. Paws of chains, barriers of sadness and gloominess. They fly, fall, flap their wings and stutter all along. 

Gardening is also like stitching. In both cases, one utilizes one’s hands to give life to something. To live and to feel enliven in a dead world seems to be the hardest act. Her activity makes me question regarding the bond between humans and the world. A city dweller may look for peace in the vanishing appearance of the mild clouds. A village entity may find solace in the surroundings or in the sparkling lights of the city life. Why such misplacement? Is it displacement, misplacement or mismatch? Or something else? It is profound, solemn as gravity pulls us down. In my childhood, I used to look at the sky. Some elders say when you look at the sky, you pray and you find yourself in the lap of the constellation of stars. Maybe, that was my refuge. It is my refuge or something I lack control of. It becomes your blood. You become its veins. 

Miraculously, I am penning down my feelings on a morning of my country’s Independence Day. I am 25. What does independence mean? To be free or to feel free? How ironical! How tantalizing! A human body holds spirit within it. A human body is a life. From this life, another life comes out.  It is almost like the transmission of lives, transfer of energy. The same human body becomes free when the burning flame called life or the sensation of life gets silent. It is the freeing of the body. The physical freedom. When does mind feel the sense of freedom? I was in corona fever in 2021. My whole body was in acute pain. To release the pain, I painted some pictures. My refuge was in colours. I was in exile but I drew the cityscapes, desert and a scenario. Mostly non-figurative. I channelled my emotions, released my sensation through the hues, and I felt the sense of freedom crawling all over my body. Sometimes, I wonder at my mind’s travels. I am not an escapist.

In the meantime, some dewdrops start melting into the bright light of the morning. 

The Seller

Part:2 

To rejection, failures and sadness (2022-2023)

Like the sellers, I go from door to door of different publishing houses, presses to submit my works and to make alife. Sometimes, I have to taste my own failures- my failed creations. 

Every day is not a good day. I open the mails. The opening lines of those mails start with ‘thank you’ and ‘regret to inform you.’ ‘Thank you’ sounds like the consolation prize, a balm to the wounds that I receive from negative mails. And the negative mails make me aware of my own insecurities and the very replaceable nature of the human beings on the earth. This is for everyone who is like me, like the sellers. They create, submit, cry, fall, submit, create… strive…breathe…

A poem to self: How to respond to the rejection mails

Shedding off tears

Is a big thing

That I can do

By killing my eyes;

If I cannot find gems in my rotten tears

I cannot find strength,

Energy dies to come out 

From the ashes of its previous selves.

Blank spaces, delete button know the pain

Of the words that I dare to erase;

From reading lines to reading exclamation signs

My soul goes for a shift

Shift from hope to faith

Like a pilgrimage 

To find truth, beauty and solace

And to turn it into sublimity. 

Rejection mails are like sand

The more I hold on its sadness

The more it slips through my hands,

It makes me forgetful 

Of what I have done and what I can do,

I can paint a heart better

Weave the pieces into a whole

Only to bring back the spark

Around my eyes

Around my brows.

A fine morning comes

After the dark clouds,

Likewise,

Praise resides 

In the apparently sorry words;

If I read failures

As bruises,

Not as death,

Not as pause,

I can see 

How the words change

And the miracle happens.

11.11.2022

Sadness for rejection

Feeling is a strange word

Like my false skin,

Wherever I go

I have to sense

My feelings

To know –

Do I exist?

Is it only my shadow?

Beware of the dubious nature 

Of existence,

One day, you feel –

You are flying,

The other days make you land

Into a place

Embroidered with 

Skeletons.

Fear not my soul,

Rather make your art

To meet rejection

To meet acceptance

To let life happen

And let it encounter with

The journey of purgation.

Passage of Rejections 

It was a morning of October when she was observing her creations. She was learning how to utter, pronounce words. Deep down, she knew the importance of practice, perseverance and having afine mind to realizewhere to stress and where to stop. 

To give a stress on a word is to highlight solely on its significance and meaning. Ironically, it fuels her craft, sincerity and passion for creation. She knows that life is a harsh place and maintaining one’s creative journey for long is not an easy task. It is God’s gift. Fortunate are the ones who keep their burning passion alive. And one has to undergo the process of rejection to meet success, to taste the aroma of life, the melody of music and the rhythmic sound of the world. 

She often remembers her days of rejections and failures. Still now, she faces failures. She imagines herself as a rock in order to digest the sharp attack of rusty storm. After storm, there will be a rainbow.

Maybe.

04.01.2023

To misery

When my soul is going through the tunnel of failures,

My eyes look for the light at the end of the tunnels.

Like success, like miracle

It appears.

Excellence comes like the whistling of wind

Or like a rainbow 

After the monochromatic drizzle.

My eyes cannot bear the burden of excessive light

When my soul can find

A rhythm in the cacophony of failures. 

Alas! Life’s tumultuous agony

That can neither be possessed 

Nor be freed

Can only be kept 

Under the sky of faith

Sky of doubt

Or in denial;

A soul, in a circus,

Is guided by the parents

And starts walking on a tightrope.

How many steps does a caterpillar take

To fly like a butterfly

To taste a bit of joy?

Alas!

Here, I, forget to count 

The minutes that I take to live a fullest life.

O misery, O failures

Don’t chain my body with high magnitude,

I like a snail

Drag my head out of my body

I may get smashed by the cobalt blue of the stormy sky. 

Then again, 

The light will shine.

18.10.2023

India

(Note: It is a short e-collection of my writings and paintings. In my piece, I have shared a glimpse of my mind, surroundings and places and have tried to depict how the geographical locals influence my mind. The cultural, spatial differences and the colours of India also create the different kind of sensibilities in my psyche. Being an inhabitant of this vast country, it becomes impossible for me to travel physically and so, I travel through my mind. Time is an interesting thing that makes me do certain things. In this case, it is the morning of an Asian country)