Guernica

I lay in my bed, staring at the half closed door,

My room was dark, with splashes of light on the bleak walls,

“Guernica”, a voice said.

“Hello”, I said.

“Have you not heard of Guernica”?

“Yes. Read about it in school”.

“Why? What about Guernica”?

“Nothing”.

“Then why wake me up with Guernica”?

“Who said, I did”?

“Then why are you talking”?

“Stop talking and let me go to sleep”!

“You do that every night”!

“Yes, I have work in the morning”!

“So why bother about Guernica, then? Let it be”.

“I never said otherwise!

Picasso brilliance before my birth does not interest me!”

“Then why do you shed crocodile tears?

When you read the morning newspaper?”

“I shed tears, real ones, when I feel pain. Is that so bad”?

“Oh, no! It’s strange, you cry and feel empty.

Pregnant now, drained next”.

“Yes, I need to cry, I said.

How else will I sleep?

How else will I go to my work tomorrow?

How else will I fill that emptiness and move on”?

“Guernica, then”.

“Guernica, I said”.

And found my eyes looking at my half closed door.

And found my door ajar.

My kitchen was buzzing with the usual sounds.

Thankfully there was no Guernica lurking in the darkness.

It was all bright, in right shape, assuring and familiar.

Till I saw the bundled pages, casually tossed by my maid on my wooden, reading table.

Waiting to be picked up…

Crazy genius

Not one bold stroke but many,

Not one stone hurled but many,

Not one country to live but many,

Not one apology but many,

Not one stagnant life,

But many enriching experiences,

Many canvasses to uplift the souls of the discerning,

Many canvasses to inspire the budding,

One thin, old, crazy man on naked feet,

What’s with great Indians and naked feet?

Buried in all greatness in the colonizer’s soil!

Buried to the puritan’s joy,

Buried yet more alive than the ever bending head before a stone,

Buried yet more alive than the ever praying wrinkled forehead,

Alive, ever happy, crazy genius,

Quite a stunning and modern visual out there.

Chitrangada

The breathing printer

There is a machine which sits a metre away from me,

I never notice it.

Probably because there is nothing to notice as it lies there steady in the non-working mode.

But once in a while when it  oozes out colorful papers from its big belly, I behold its ugliness at work.

Those papers that come out mean a lot or maybe not, to someone. But nothing to me.

I am only aware of a rhythm a loud breathing sound which soothes my  nerves – sometimes over worked, sometimes under worked,

My colleagues don’t hear it.

They’ve spent too many years in the same place to notice.

I do. Loud and slow. Strong and sure. The not-bothered, not-worried breath.

A sample of life  from a  machine,

And yet more lively than the familiar sounds, smiles, banter and worries.

Chitrangada

Same-to-same

We are all the same.

We wear the same clothes,

Speak the same language, watch the same things,

Eat the same food, hear the same things,

Walk in the same parks, worship the same gods,

Vote for the same leaders,

Complain about the same issues,

Worry about the same worries,

Wonder about the same answers,

We do nothing different and yet we want to be different!

I go watching Osibisa and you go trekking in a god forbidden part of the country!

We come back and boast about it.

And then we realize what we thought made us different is just the same.

Did not change a bit!

That’s how we all are now,

Industrial, animated, educated, multifaceted, moneyed, un identical twins!

All is well

What is it with people?

Why do they always need assurance?

What is it with humans?

Why do they always need an extra dose of indulgence?

“Yes. It’s alright.”

“Go ahead and fight.”

“I am here waiting for you.”

“Hey guess what – I love you”.

“Are you there working or browsing”?

“Will you actually come to the party with me this evening?”

“Why are you here, why did you leave your previous job?”

“ Are you sure when you go out, you do not hobnob?”

“Will you be there when I am home?”

“Make me dinner; wash my wounds when all is gone?”

Questions that need an answer, doesn’t matter if it’s true or false.

Looks like we all are babies. Sucker for assurance and love.

Sounds like we all need to be told often “all is well”.

Stop, we are here. Please don’t jump into that pit less well.

Babies, that’s what we are.

When do we grow up?

Just before we stop breathing?

Well, I’ve seen some who need to be held even before they bid their final goodbye.

We never grow up, do we?

At home, in work, in our daily self-important lives.

Breath

Every time I breathe I feel I am alive,

Every time I take that next breath,

I feel I’ve survived.

This is not easy.

Not half as cinematic as it looks onscreen.

Ask me.

Till yesterday, I thought it was silly to talk about this exercise of passing air through my nostrils,

Then it happened.

I found a heavy knot inside my chest, tucked deep inside me, an immobile object. 

I was infuriated in the beginning.

How dare it force me to use my mouth to pass air?

How dare my nostrils refuse to co-operate?

This is my body, I pass orders.

Not some stupid, rebellious, powerful, invisible knot seated comfortably above my stomach.

I fought the whole night.

Sacrificing sleep, sweet sleep.

Refused to take external ammunition to fight it.

Three nights spent in an agonizing fight.

Need external ammunition now.

All this for a breath!

All this to breathe in and out without a fight,

With the enemy in my chest.

Test

Wrote a test

Wanted to get somewhere with that.

Wrote and rewrote,

Checked and checked,

Till it looked like satisfaction on paper.

Got attached to it.

Started feeling for the words in red and black in a descent font size!

Looked plump and happy to me, my contented words.

Now, I wanted to get somewhere,

Somewhere special,

Where I would sit on an ornamental chair with a smart and nifty world on the table!

Manufacture words. Look for those missing commas which make your heart beat pause,

For those periods which end it all.

For those dashes and colons which tell it the right way, ha ha, this et al.

People in blue buttoned shirts and smart pants, all singing my praise,

Hail this genius! Hail this controller of words!

Ha! Me and my kingdom of words!

No no!  It was not a dream, I must say.

It was there, ready to be grabbed.

I was almost there with my pen and word-control eyes.

My eyes, you ask? Yes they house million dreams! Should you make fun?

Yes. I thought of a fabulous life. A duplex house, fancy red car, patch of cultivated green, a smiling family,

A green, wild, open field lying there all for me to begin my oft forgotten plan,

To run for exercise.

Now it is not there. All gone and it only took a minute.

How? Do you have to salt and pepper my burn?

They wrote a mail.

Which made me feel like a criminal on the dock, left gaping at the judge who had just uttered, “court adjourned”.

“There were many eyes or too many word manufacturers”, they wrote. Oh! those words. Hammering into my ears.

They came in like Santa Clauses, my dream breakers, riding on commas and periods.

Their  gifts? Ha ha! Shining white papers  with slim and in-shape words.

They came in all at the right time. When I was creating a perfect dream and a near perfect shining white paper.

 I saw something, then. Something bleak and muted.

 I saw me, sitting  outside a Christmas house, on a moonlit night . All frigid and lost.

Without food, warm clothing or shelter.

There was no gift waiting for me under that hopefilled tree.

There was no ornamental table, no fancy car.

Only a shoulder strong enough to support my leaning side.

Calm, cool words from some distant , familiar voice.

Like cool, sparkling white, foamy water, falling on a dark, steady rock.

Made me soothe, heal, and recreate my dreams.

And left me thinking, no no, never, ever say hide.

Easy

Chosen easy ways,

Not fought enough?

Or fought too hard?

But it still looks easy-my choice.

Am I complacent, small, stale?

Oh! no. That’s not me. It’s just my choice.

Is safe mediocre?

Easy to deduce

Easy to satisfy

Easy on the senses

Easy on the pocket.

What is grand?

A challenge worth taking?

Maybe go paragliding or river rafting

Maybe start my shop or

Maybe jump from the Himalayan top.

Don’t know really.

Trying to find that one grand thing.

Not be served or serve the usual

Family, friends, job, relative success and death.

Trying hard to not go easy

Trying too hard maybe….

Stop looking and you will find

Stop talking and you will hear

Stop trying and you will realize

What is easy was once damn hard,

Maybe wake up and find easy is just routine hardship,

Made perfect by time and practice.

A simple man

A simple man that is what he is

A 9 to 5 routine no singing, no dancing, no drinking much

A nut for many, a genius for none.

Does he mind not having a mansion or a missus?

Well, when I look at him, it really does not look like.

Every morning at 6 his daily ritual begins in his only room

Get up, compulsively shave, cast a vacant look at the vacant room

Sit into the office bus and wait for the road to turn into something new

Maybe a palace with a lovely princess or simply into a magical chamber with a view.

To me he is an amazing guy

I can vouch – have never seen him pick up a fight or check a woman out on the sly.

He does secretly admire one vivacious woman though

But has never found the courage to ask her out or tell her that he is her guy.

Now is this turning out to be clichéd for you?

The same old geek and beauty tale, be warned it’s not your time to boo.

Our man is a strange fellow; there is something strange about the way he never agrees to spend any weekend at office

Making colleagues wonder whether that’s because he is simply an escapist or a guy on the precipice

“He never hangs out with anyone man”, says one.

“He doesn’t even have a girl friend. What does he do? Hang out with himself winks the other or get high on whiskey or wine”!

Saturday is a different day

Wake up at 5 and take the bus on an unfamiliar and long yet short route.

Almost run on that kachha lane and never forget to put his mobile on mute.

Its time for their morning prayers.

He wonders aloud, “I know Mr. Raghavan will be late and the ultra – religious Farida taking the second of her morning showers”.

The old, dilapidated building is holding good

It really depends on when it’s going to sink to the ground and change its mood.

These old guys are going to be around till then

Strange, how they resemble this building, thinks our simple man.

Anyways let me start the favorite part of my week and be around as long as I can.

By: Chitrangada

Working really…

I am working, really!

Come on does it sound so damn silly!

Well, let me explain…

I have been up in the morning at the right hour, packed my lunch, served breakfast and taken the overcrowded and unsafe train.

I could have died in the commute…

The fact that I am alive, my God to you – is a personal tribute.

Huff and puff, huff and puff,

This is how I reach office every day,

Switch my desktop, check my mails and attempt at being on the top.

I make a silent promise – no one should say what I write is a utter flop!

Then I look in to the screen and see galaxies and the Milky Way.

Where is earth – my planet I ask?

Maybe I should look for it some other day.

Lost am I in this beautiful world they call the internet?

How can it be? This is my bread and butter, my worth, the place where fate brought me closer to my present mate.

Well it’s not all lost if knowing that pleases you

I have my days of high – adrenalin pumping to create a new tomorrow

Shared happiness – me and the inflowing currency – absolutely no sorrow.

I am working really

Come on does it sound so silly!

I reach home at a certain hour each day in the evening

My cook is ready to tidy the kitchen and lay the table and I can positively hear my stomach growling.

I call my mate – my husband – when will you arrive?

He says, “In an hour baby, I have so many sales targets to drive”.

Do I wait for him or have my dinner?

My socially educated voice prompts – “come on wait for your husband. Were you brought up without a manner”?

I have my dinner any way

I will wait for him some other day.

Late at night my top corporate performer decides to check in

Did he have an option? I remind him, “mister this is no inn”.

He is all honesty and very romantic

My heart tells me see you married the right man

He is the one who will stand by you in shine and rain.

I smell alcohol in his breath to my despair

But then fighting against my mother’s voice in my head I think a man drunk is always honest

So I can now have a good night’s sleep without feeling alone, desperate and lost without a pair.

I am working really

Come on does it sound so silly!

Next morning is a different story

I decide to start my day by listening to Vedic chants

Huff and puff – mind you only to practice better breathing and race for lost glory.

“Let’s see how stress does with me today”, I say rubbing my palms.

My maid at that auspicious time shouts, “amma the sugar jar has many, many ants”.

Many, many ants? Right that’s what people at the station look like.

Why does my office with so many people of different shapes and sixes blur into a dazzling ant hole?

There is that common buzz again and all the big, black ants shout, “when are we getting the annual hike”?

I am working really

Come on does it sound so damn silly!

Silly maybe, but is there an option for us industrialized folks?

Is there a way where we could feel like this is our highest calling really!

Fill our pockets doing what we love

Maybe just sit back and watch for once that rare flight of the dove!

There is a strange consolation in my fellow, enterprising ants

We will all relax have a lovely house, kids, dogs and a garden

When? Well, a few years from now.

At the breakfast table my husband smug and all smiles suddenly remarks, “I will then burn those black pants”.

Right! No work what will we do then? Are we going to beg, borrow, or steal?

We will be entrepreneurs he coolly points out. Tell me then my sweets how you feel!

Yes my darling, we can then be in love again – without the sales targets and the chaos at my desk or in the kitchen.

No boss to smack my creativity or manipulate my dynamism

Yes. Yes. Free at last. But what about the market forces? Man do I have to kill the fledgling optimism.

His face looks calm still. He looks right into me and closes his mouth to say we will. Someday we will.

By:Chitrangada