Sometimes I am not myself,
Sometimes I don’t even know what being myself means,
Vain, shallow, stupid,
So fucking indecisive,
So fucking misunderstood,
Sometimes I am not my best,
But I expect that I should be.
Then I remind myself that it’s not fair
I remind myself to be patient, to be kind,
Maybe it’s time to be alone,
Ah, this solitude – this guilty bliss
The temporary freedom
to be anything and nothing
Just so I can hope to be myself again.
*
Dear man of my dreams,
Stop ghosting me
(at least send me a meme)
that is if you yourself are not a ghost-
Give me a sign if you exist!
And if you are going to be late,
Don’t worry, I can wait
but if you are never going to come,
If you are dead already
Or if you were never born,
Can you somehow still let me know so that I can move on?
8 billion people on this planet-
Many of them married,
some live in North Korea, some in jails,
but still there must be many eligible bachelors out there…
They say I should perhaps
Look again into those dating apps
Dig deeper
Search harder
Further and farther;
Dates
after dates
after dates
after dates
I’ve met new strangers, new lovers,
new friends, new fuckers
new followers, new unfollowers,
But where the hell are you?
As my friends
and colleagues
and the whole wide world on Instagram’s getting married
finding so much love
and love
and love
and love
(And God, they are so much in love)
I am fearing what if I am missing out?
I want to try saying I love you to an actual person
That you, my darling, are the one
Who for a change is not my own reflection.
I call you man of my dreams
even though you have never once appeared in one
Meaning, says Marvel,
not just this Universe you don’t exist in any Universe.
Look, I don’t mind dying alone
Many people have done that happily
And I am sure I can be one of them too
But are you sure you are not there?
Are you, god forbid, one of those guys
whose ‘Hys’ I never bothered to reply?
Are you one of those I have been ignoring?
Because I think you are a bit too boring?
How am I supposed to know if I actually meet you?
Will there be violins in the background that will set us in a daze?
While my hair blows in slow motion and you can’t help but gaze?
Shouldn’t there be a clue
that tells me if I am meant to be with you?
You will know, Saloni
You will just know, they tell me
That is, of course, if we ever meet
That is, of course, if you are there
I am starting to think maybe you are not…
If you are looking for a sign for you to send me a sign
Can this qualify as one?
It’s not great, but it’s better than none.
I am not really sure if this is how it works
But if it works,
Dear man of my dreams
find me or let me find you
And let us find love…
And love
And so much of love
That we’d spam their feed so bad
they’d regret us finding each other.
**
. It starts small
with a tiny wormhole at the bottom of your purse
Sucking your hair clips
your rubber band
your pens
your masks
your peace of mind…
And the wormhole gets bigger
your helpless regretful forgetfulness
engulfs your scarf
your earphones
your wallet
or your beloved water bottle
that you left at the restaurant
in the auto
in the mall
at the hotel
in the train
where it was finally lost for good.
About time we close the wormhole
but damn,
it only gets bigger
sucking your gold earrings
your car keys
your phone
your ATM card
your job
and your sleep.
Oh fuck you,
Will you stop?
Of course not, will upgrade!
Why just things?
When we can also lose trust
or your hope, or your health
or your time
A minute, an hour, a year
or an entire lifetime.
Let’s lose people
your ex
your friendships
your relationships
a person you loved the most
or a few
or maybe just you.
Where do I find them?
My time,
My memories,
My people,
Scattered in bits and pieces
in places I can no longer visit
How do I ever find them again,
my lost things, my lost self
that I miss so much?
**
The thing is that I am late
and that lateness is causing havoc in my mind
that lateness is causing havoc in my body.
You say that you are sorry
like you genuinely regret the inconvenience caused
But I don’t need your damn apology
I need your support
I need your presence
Your compassion
that you once so passionately spoke about.
*
While you run around carefree
plan your exciting life ahead
My life’s been paused
feeling stupid
embarrassed
guilty
helpless
facing the consequences
of those fleeting moments of passion
that we shared together.
*
But now it’s just me
who stands nervously inside the court
Awaiting
moral, ethical, cultural, social, political, judicial judgement
Too scared to say a word
even to the people who love me the most
Too paranoid to think straight
Too emotional to process
That the verdict is already out
That I am plain
outright
stupid
to be a woman
and probably soon-to-be a ‘killer’
desperately trying to save her own life.
*
Unless, of course
I get those damn periods
which I generally hate
but now that I am late
I’d love it to meet me
greet me
with its glorious bloody presence
even though I don’t particularly enjoy the cramps
and the mood swings
it brings
I look forward to embracing it all
awaiting my uterus to make that final call
to shed itself
and relieve me from my misery.
*
I tell myself that
I will get through this somehow
whatever it may come to
but why
why is it that the responsibility
to bitterly atone
is solely on me and me alone?
men will be men
and meanwhile I?
I am a criminal.
Nothing less but probably everything more.
**
I don’t know why
but being different is important to me.
Does it give me happiness?
Not always.
Does it give me clarity?
Not always.
Does it give me money?
Never.
But still, I have to be this way.
I guess it gives me a bit of meaning.
But if I brood too much,
that meaning is lost.
I guess it gives me a soul,
But if I commercialise it that soul is lost.
I guess it gives me a bit of passion,
my raison d^etre,
But there could be so many better reasons to live,
There could be so many reasons not to live,
And my pen can’t take the weight to counter them all.
Maybe it gives me some goals,
But I never complete them till the end –
An end that can be recognized
An end that concludes a dream.
But what exactly is this dream?
To create, and abandon?
To wander, lost and confused?
To fix, and break something else in the process?
To explore, this endless world?
only to know
that you don’t know shit?
Sometimes I wish I was like everyone else
or whatever I think everyone else is like
But I know I can’t be that
being normal is boring,
and being different is exciting,
being different is freedom!
But freedom at what cost?
The corpses of expectations,
The greener grass of the path not taken,
The tormentors from the land of uncertainty,
And the goddess of procrastination,
asking for hours and hours
of daily worship.
But when I create anything
everything melts away
My creation
compensates for the lack of a company,
it compensates for the apparent lack of purpose
and even though it’s not a magnum opus
I love it.
It doesn’t make me exactly that different
but it gives me the illusion that I am
and nothing else seems to matter
until the last brush stroke,
until that last one word.
It doesn’t make sense.
But being this way
somehow feels the right way to be.
I don’t know why.
*
My newest hobby
is to look for jobs on LinkedIn
and study the job descriptions
like textbooks.
And then wonder even after decades of learning
there’s so much
that I need to learn.
And what I need to learn
is not necessarily what I want to learn
but I have to learn it
to be ‘employable’.
My newest idea for fun
is to apply to these jobs right away
(unless they ask for cover letters)
(or direct me to a new website to build yet another profile)
and even when I don’t fit
I apply
and even when I know
that most probably they won’t reply
I apply
to see how much my confidence can take it.
It’s not like I don’t have a job,
I do.
It’s not like I particularly despise it,
I don’t.
But sometimes I do
like at some point we all do
but it’s not bad
it’s great
there are definitely some good parts
and I can be loyal
because employers expect loyalty
but employees expect an appraisal
some acknowledgement,
a bit of appreciation
but these days apparently we all expect too much.
Probably, my future job will be like this too
but at least it would be new
for a while
and maybe I may not like it
but my salary, they would hike it
and I guess I would like that
and the ton of responsibility that will come with that.
At least I hope I won’t be frustrated or bored
there’ll be new people to frustrate and bore.
Also, there’ll be more experience onboard
to apply for better jobs
and get a better pay
so that I could pay better taxes
and work more
and manage more
until my work-life balance is completely annihilated.
So then I think
I should start something of my own
and instead of 9 to 5
I should work all the time
anyway I work all the time
at least I can pay myself better
if at all I get the clients
to pay me,
if at all I get skilled employees
who can work for me
with all honesty and dedication
whom I can pay less
while writing big fat cheques
to myself
and buy a bungalow at the seaside
or in the mountains
or at the moon
and finally, finally live in peace
and try not to worry
about my business not generating enough revenue
or my business not getting sold
or employees whom I may have trained and guided
leaving me for better opportunities
or clients going for better deals
and I am left feeling betrayed
if at all
the business runs at all.
Is there any optimistic ending
at any end?
My inbox is filled with rejections
and I am too busy to feel dejection
and too scared to start anything of my own
or stick to it if I do.
So I am scrolling and scrolling
not the reels
but the LinkedIn
again,
wondering
amidst all the stories of success that I am seeing
where is my life going?
Wondering
what the fucking hell!
These days
nothing rings a bell!
When I was younger there was a dream
but now I am getting older
and it seems
there’s always a movie I want to stream
because the real world is depressing.
But I need to do my job
a good job
the good job
to feel valued
to feel relevant
and finally feel exploited.
All I wanted was some money to pay off my loan
travel around
create art
eat, live, and invest
and have fun while doing it.
And that if and when I am old
I can chill, I can rest
at last
but apparently, that’s not enough.
Apparently, that’s not even possible.
Where are these roads going
the time is passing
a month, a year, a decade…
What was it supposed to be like
to live an ideal life?
Is there an ideal life?
Can I just die and never be born again?
And sound less depressing when I say that?
Oh wait,
even for that apparently
I need to meditate the entire existence out of myself
and burn all the karmic connections I have had
not just in this birth
but all the births I have ever had.
Can I do that by watching some memes instead?
I can volunteer to travel to the mountains though.
Oh wait, for that too I need money.
And more importantly, I need leaves.
I am okay, I am fine,
in case anyone at all is asking
I am not generally this pessimistic
in case anyone is judging.
It’s just that
everything is a box
and everything is a square
and life keeps on running in a circle.
I am someplace
somewhere a dot
flung far away in the Universe
looking for a job that suits me
looking for a me that suits the job
Perhaps I will find it
and later complain about it-
for nothing good is permanently good
and everything good can be better.
Meanwhile,
the Universe doesn’t give a damn.
Or perhaps it does
if I may
Just overestimate my importance a little.
So now I am on Linkedin again
Updating a new post
to be visible
to be viral
to be famous
And then do what?
Post new posts
because fame has to be maintained,
even fame is a job.
Anyway there’s nothing much I can do with it
except losing whatever little privacy I have
and get free food at the restaurants perhaps
for sharing stories
and get free trolling in case I run out of unnecessary attention.
Do we have any better purpose?
Does anyone else feel we must have something more
something?
anything more?
No? Are you sure?
Maybe I should try
being satisfied with what I have,
find a new hobby
try yoga for instance,
or return to the old ones
poetry for instance
poetry which is not explosive
poetry about monsoon
about love
poetry about all the good things
all the good little fake things.
Will anyone judge me for this?
My potential employers,
My current employers,
My ex-employers,
Should I be scared?
for being honest
for letting my thoughts out unfiltered
for demanding more
for needing more
for wanting a better life
for me
and for all
am I too naive?
am I too greedy?
am I just too stupid?
What do you think?
Would you let me know in the comments?
Followed by some hashtags-
gestures of how you like this
and how you care
and still, there’s nothing you can do
to address my despair?
Or yours.
Except clicking a small little button?
Because maybe you too believe
you are just too ungrateful
for wanting to be unique
and special
and yet blend in the crowd
for wanting to be you
and not wanting to change that
for wanting to get what you deserve
for wanting a perfect life
and yet failing to achieve that
despite all the 90 percentages and percentiles,
all the fancy institutes
all the fancy companies
government or private
all the fancy skills,
and the certificates,
and the experiences,
and the motivational books, and the videos, and the success stories?
They will tell you one way or the other
that nope
you don’t deserve it.
“You are too average.”
But what about the heart that refuses to believe that?
What about the heart that yearns to be different?
That yearns to make a difference?
That heart tells me not to think about all this
That heart tells me to keep trying
keep hoping
keep making
mistakes after mistakes
until I can say
that they were mistaken.
Perhaps someday
they will be proven wrong,
Perhaps one day
it won’t matter anyway.
*
No matter what you do,
they are never going to be happy with what you do.
Out on a journey to perpetually disappoint them
You cross one milestone that they set
and they would expect you to cross one more
that they would set again
because you can be better
than what you are
always.
No matter what you do
No matter how different you are
No matter how much that means to you
No matter how much you value
if it isn’t something that they value
then your life
your talent
your so-called potential
is a waste.
In your head, you have learnt so much
In your head, you have grown so much
In your head, you think
you are happy.
In their head, they think
you are just selfish
and so damn ungrateful.
Yeah sure there’s still some struggle
there’s still some hustle
Sure there is indeed some more learning and unlearning to do
but you are happy to tussle
in between whatever little you have
whatever little that will grow
because you nourish it
you cherish it
you love it
that you have the space to be you
to create your own destinations
to choose your own dreams
and when you grow older
you’d know
that you have nothing to regret because you listened to your heart.
“But your heart is too young”
They’d say
“Your brain is blind”
They’d say
Who are you to argue?
With people who came decades before you?
With the people who created you?
Sure they’d know more about your life
than you do yourself
Either “You don’t know your own potential.”
(Someone ban the word potential please)
Or “You don’t know the world”
Or both.
How bloody irresponsible!
According to them, you have not done enough
Always throwing away opportunities
to tread through roads
that no one takes –
You call that an adventure,
They call it stupidity.
No one takes those roads
because they lead to nowhere, duh!
They have had enough.
No more.
You can do so much better.
Here try some hardcore and ridiculously competitive
tried & tested options
to prove your worth
(because they dreamt of themselves once and couldn’t live it)
and finally, be respectable.
Sure they want to bring out the best in us
and a bit of pressure
turns carbon into diamonds.
A bit too much pressure
makes things explode too.
But fine, a risk worth taking, right?
Why did we grow up to have our own voice?
When we really didn’t have any choice?
Why do we create humans but not robots as our progenies?
How can they be so sure that the decisions we take for our own
lives would be a regret
just because they don’t match with theirs?
We would have aligned with you if we could
Life would have been so much simpler that way
But this same two decades of generation gap
has given us a pair of eyes
that sees the world in a different way
that inspires us to live in a different way.
Is it too much to ask to navigate through our own lives
Find our own way, right or wrong
Find our own peace, short-lived or long,
Is it too much for them to see that
We are happy, really we are okay?
With all our glaring ordinariness
we can still be a bit extraordinary in between.
But if you argue, you are left to guilt trip
For not abiding by the principle of great obedience.
God we hope we could inherit your dreams and beliefs
instead of your genes
But sadly, we ended up growing our own
And if we get to live everything
Everything that we dreamt and envisioned
We would still fall short of their expectations
Because we couldn’t/wouldn’t crack that exam that they wanted us to crack,
Do what they wanted us to do.
Now we are forever worthless no matter what we try
No matter what the rest of the world says
No matter what we say
Our lives are forever ruined
Because it didn’t turn out to be how they wanted it to be.
And we’d feel terrible
because we are terrible.
Tell me, how is that fair?
***
Who may never be born,
Because first of all I will need a sperm donor
Whom I could call my husband
And you could call your father
But your mother is a bit crazy
Harbouring many popular
unpopular opinions
Like men, for example,
who she finds pretty disappointing
as prospective life partners
and she wonders why and how this tradition even lasted so long.
Out of love?
Or out of fear?
They say there’s nothing worse than dying alone
Several lifetimes might not be enough to atone
So, many of us rush to start our families,
To chase our happily ever afters
Knowing perfectly that it’s not always that happy afterwards
How can I say stuff like this?
Questioning the fundamentals of every damn society
Me, your mother,
A privileged little
Unapologetic
Ungrateful
Bitch.
Perhaps I am not even qualified to be a parent
Although I know
If you were to really exist
My child
I would love you till my last breath
My new purpose,
My new reason,
My new strength,
Oh how beautiful you would be!
Even when you frown at me
Even when you are this rebellious teenager
Who I am struggling to understand
(But conveniently stereotyping)
“Mom! You are cute but that’s so 90’s!”
“Mom! You are getting old!”
I was born with a womb
I am biologically wired to create you
To love you
To nourish you
To raise you
I was born with a womb
Like my only real purpose
Was to bring you on this planet
And propagate my genes ahead
Like it is for most of the animals
Most of whom we have killed already
Because we care for our children
And other organisms don’t matter.
That’s how my love is
Selfless for you
And selfish for the rest of the world.
How wonderful it would be to hold your tiny body
In my arms
As I marvel at your beautiful face
My heart swelling and swelling with love
How would it feel to feel you in my womb
My placenta;
Your first bed
Your first food source
Your first-ever plastic supply.
It terrifies me
to bring you into the world
where all I see is concrete and more concrete
where the real jungle disappears
Too bad trees don’t make money
Only oxygen,
Which is great
but not better than the digits in my bank account
And so what if the air has less O2
And more dust, and more CO, and SO and CO2?
And so what if the world is burning
And burning?
And we ignore it
Because thinking about it is depressing
Because our most pressing
problems just magically disappear
if we just turn a blind eye.
Tell me
How do I bring you into a world
where the ocean is choking with plastics
And the river is choking with chemicals
where habitats have turned into hell?
You expect me to have faith?
Where do I put my faith?
God is dead.
Humanity is dead.
Or at least in a coma.
I am not strong enough my child,
Perhaps I could fight for you
I could give you all my love
But I would also give you my genes
With a history of cancer
Or heart disease
Or mental illness.
And the trans fat
And the artificial hormones
And the pesticides
and the microplastics in the food I eat
don’t help the cause.
How do I bring you into a world
where we know so much
but are still so ignorant?
Where we talk of compassion
and still be so careless?
Where the greed still wins
Despite knowing how it leads to eventual defeat?
Where people are running and escaping
To a faraway picturesque island or a continent or a fantasy
Hoping that their lives would be better there.
But would it?
Our entire home is on fire
Or submerged underwater
Maybe not yours today
Because you are wealthy
But it will be tomorrow
And I can’t blindfold myself
And do what we have been doing for ages
Because that’s what we have been doing for ages
Without questioning.
Your mother thinks too much
Perhaps your mother is paranoid
I am sorry I am not hopeful
They tell me I don’t have to save the world
Like it’s not mine to save
Anyway it’s too huge and complicated
My only responsibility is to survive
And settle
And bring you
In a world that I am not proud of.
It’s not that bad though,
they tell me,
There’s still some beauty
That is left for you and me to enjoy
There is still space for us all
And who knows there could be a miracle
That somehow we will get our home back
But who exactly is bringing that back?
Most of us are too busy
To loot from what’s left
Or continue hoarding and hoarding
Not caring if nothing remains.
So I have decided to be selfish too
That my life is mine
And just mine
Not yours
Not his
Not theirs
But mine
And that would be the end of it.
***
I sit on the commode of my locked bathroom,
Ignoring my problems
That knock on my door
“Hey, are you coming out?” they ask
“Yup, in 2 minutes. Or days.”
I am wondering
Whether to shit
Whether to bathe
Whether to die –
They come in all shapes & sizes,
These knocks, these problems
Fiction & Nonfiction
Irrelevant & Important
Impulses and Oversimplified extrapolation
Some are short-lived
Some stay for a long time
Some come and go
And come and go
And come and go
Some visit me frequently as if they love me
And l love them back
How long can I go on hiding from them?
Not much, I know
These movies, this music,
These musings in the toilet
These books and poems,
The to-do lists & planners,
Latches and locks
But not the solutions
How long can I go on?
I need to open that door.
Knock. Knock.
Who’s there?
Your relationships.
Knock. Knock.
Who’s there?
Your career.
Knock. Knock.
Who’s there?
Your health.
Knock. Knock.
Who’s there?
A gigantic pimple.
Knock. Knock.
Who’s there?
Your bank account.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Your addiction.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
A pandemic.
Knock, knock.
Shut up.
Shut up who?
Shut up you.
Dancing around my porch, my problems,
My privileged and pretty little problems,
They must be wondering what a party it is
While I try to poop in my toilet
Wondering how they are the real party poopers.
Enough talk about shit.
I am supposed to find purpose somewhere in this problem party
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Wars.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Poverty.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Climate change.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Extinction.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Who.
Who who?
Who gives a shit who.
So I shit a bit longer
wondering if I am the who
who at all gives a shit,
dwelling in the washroom
while the party goes on outside.
Terrified of the ugly world
I can see beauty in the closing walls of this tiny refuge.
Why shall I entertain them?
Why shall I be stuck in this endless circle of
Problem-solving, and problematizing the solution
What do I get out of it?
Is the purpose worth the price I pay?
And by the way,
when & why was I even pushed into it?
Did anyone ask if I was up for it?
But dear, your problematic life is bliss you see!
You get a lifetime of beautiful experiences that you need to let go of in the end.
Or perhaps you’d realize it was all for the greater good as a barren planet billions of years later
Anyway, there is nothing to be missed about this,
The pleasure and the pain,
Even if it is, we can tell you that nothing goes in vain.
Great.
Knock. Knock!
“Anthropocene age is coming to an end. Are you going to miss this shitting in the toilet?”
“Has it really been that long?”
“No, it has just been really fast. Come out!”
“No.”
“We’ve got alcohol.”
“And?”
“And some other stuff.”
“And?”
“Yeah, that too.”
Great, time to escape.
*
It’s hard to dream really,
Once you finally get started,
You are bound to ask
Why
Why
Why
You chose to make love
Over making money
And now you stand naked in front of the people
Asking them to like you
Some of them do,
Some of them don’t,
Why do they not?
You look yourself in the mirror
And find only flaws
Why do they even do?
A question you throw to those who love you.
It’s hard to dream really
There’s one step toward progress
And two steps to regress
Two or three,
What’s wrong with me?
Where did it go, all the glory?
Once dispersed in the air like confetti
And now there are ashes slowly floating down to the ground.
What stupidity!
Now, I weep on my pages
On crazy outrages
Gasping for breath, floundering,
My mind madly meandering.
Maybe I would continue to suffocate,
Maybe I would continue to suffer,
And still, I would be an optimist
Even when the times are tougher.
I will cling on to the rope,
I may never give up hope,
And even when I weep,
I would think of the promise I must keep.
Of course, it’s hard to dream,
No wonder so many don’t.
Idiocy,
Idiosyncrasy,
And I have chosen both.
Sure, I have been upset,
But there have been no regrets,
I never stepped in with an expectation of how everything would be perfect.
And it hurts,
But also it doesn’t.
I would be honest.
I wouldn’t lie
Still each morning I need to remind myself why.
The doors are far behind,
Much farther than I thought
And even if I were to return
I will find them all locked.
So the only option is to move ahead
The real choice is between confidence and dread.
If an idiot is what they have been calling me,
Then idiot is what I would confidently be.
You have your security
And I have my dreams and my heart
I don’t know if it’s a fair trade
But I hope without too much of a fuss,
That it turns out good for both of us.
*
The Turquoise Ink 