What dreams were made of

Home
With you and me
The two of us
Enough to be a family

How long have I waited
Not for a white dress
Or a knight in shining armour
Or for a red poofy skirt
Or to throw puffs of rice

Neither did I long for the yellow tattoos
Nor for the henna to darken
The big special day
Never trumps the normal decades that follow
Not for me

What I wanted was
The weekly trips to the supermarket
Fights over monthly expenditure
Small wins over who gets the remote
And then sleeping halfway through it

My dreams were full of
Sunday morning drives
Followed by a simple breakfast in a corner stall
Then came the lunch
Cooked with last night’s leftovers
And a deep fulfilling nap

No romantic roses made the cut
Nor did vows of forever after or the impossibles
I only wanted the daily routine
A partner to witness and share
The meagre vagaries of life

Was it too much to ask for?

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How was your day?

How was your day

You complain

I never ask

You narrate the top headlines

The unruly maid

The unkempt help

The untimely call

The unnecessary gossip

The untidy laundry

The unhappy husband

The unseen sorrow

The unwell joys

The undoing of your mind

And if time permits

The tidings of the neighbors

Of siblings, cousins and nephews

Of promises broken and words unkept

Of those long lost

And the silent goodbyes

In my mind

I narrate the same

With words

Punctuated by silence

And then you complain

I never speak

Someday

Regularly
We clean up
The debris
Around
The eye of the storm
And sweep it
Under the carpet

Regularly
We take out for a wash
The skeletons hidden inside
Dust the wardrobe
The bleached bones old and new
And put it back in fresh as a dew

Someday
The skeletons will see
The salvation they seek
Resolutions
Absolving of guilt

Someday

Until then
Regularly
We clean

Wish for more; wish for nothing

Have you ever had enough of something and yet wanted a bit more of it?

I never thought I did until I traveled. Until then, it was clear whether I wanted more of something or whether I had had enough. It was an ‘either or’ situation; they were mutually exclusive.

Now, though, as I hit the last leg of my journey, I find myself wanting different things that seem opposite to each other.

I can’t wait to go back home. I feel 10-13 days has been long enough. I’ve traveled enough to satisfy me for a few months.

And then, I wish I had a few months more—travel at leisure with weeks spent in one place instead of a day or two. Hang around and work a few odd jobs like the locals; backpack around for a fair bit; don’t look back at home for a year or so; maybe volunteer a bit too!

It’s weird because they’re exactly opposite to each other. I can’t eat the cake and have it too. I can’t be at home and travel too.

And yet, that’s what I find myself feeling.

As much as I love the new experiences, I’m starting to feel like taking it slow, giving a few places a miss, sit at one place for longer—few days even. And then the tiredness gives way to a craving for the comforts of home.

And yet, I find myself craving to be the person who had once wanted to volunteer and travel for months at a time; do odd jobs that earns you enough to let you travel from one place to another; get a glimpse of the local life; not be a mere traveller or tourist. Be an actual gypsy. 

But then, reality strikes. Neither am I the young gun who would’ve had the balls to do it. Nor do I have the will to actually proceed through. At best, I can buy myself travel-led freedom for two weeks. Maybe, some day, when I look back, I’ll feel it’s enough. Hopefully. Or maybe not.

I think the problem is of having had too much. An overdose of good things too can be problematic. It doesn’t give you enough headspace to appreciate, observe, feel and digest.

In a lot many ways, it’s a classic first world problem. 

Nonetheless, I count myself lucky to have been given this opportunity. And I won’t give up what I’ve experienced for anything. It’s been an amazing journey—better than I could have ever dreamt of! I’m proud of myself for having achieved this. And now, I can’t wait for more such changes and experiences. 

Until then, may be a little bit of home would be good. Or may be a little extra travel.

Move on

“Move on.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“…..”

“Why?”

“Because it would be murder. All those memories we painstakingly collected, they will be long forgotten. No, I’d rather smile and cry whenever I remember you and our memories. Some day, the edges of these memories are going to get frayed and dog-eared like a beloved book read again and again. I’d rather our memories too die a natural death. I don’t want them to meet a preemptive end. You move on. You need to. I’m happy here.”

What Pain feels like

What pain feels like

Imagine you are in an enclosed room with no window or door. Only limited supply of air. Slowly, it feels as if the walls are moving in, further choking you. You try desperately to claw your way through the walls. Soon enough, you fall short of enough oxygen and it feels like your lungs are going to burn through the skin. You don’t know whether to tear your chest apart to let some air in or bang on the walls. All the while, it is closing in further and further until it almost becomes another layer of your skin.

No, you don’t die. This is pain, not science. You are cursed to live in suffocation until you drown in your own misery.

This is what pain feels like.

Too many cooks spoil the broth; too many words spoil the line

I love the sound of literature. I absolutely love how it feels when words roll off your tongue, the music it makes. I read for this sake. The stories only come second. I need my language to be mellifluous—as per my tastes. When too many big, hard-to-understand words are used in copious amounts, it sounds like a fish market in my head. Absolutely jarring!

Have you ever attended a music concert? Or even any band or musician playing, for that matter?

You may have noticed that of the multiple instruments playing, some have higher volumes while some have lower. In some cases it could be the guitar, while some other cases the base instrument. The vocals almost always have the highest volumes.

You see, every song needs the perfect symphony. It is not just about the lyrics and tune, but also how they are mixed—the proportions. It is like cooking too—you absolutely need to get the proportions right.

It is exactly the same with literature too, I believe.

There are many who advocate the use of simple language in literature. And then there are those who use copious amounts of ‘big’ words. They need these to enjoy literature. It is a personal choice, after all.

I belong to the former clan. There was a time when I loved the use of complex words. I still do, but I like them to be used minimally.

You see, I love the sound of literature. I absolutely love how it feels when words roll off your tongue, the music it makes. I read for this sake. The stories only come second. I need my language to be mellifluous—as per my tastes.

So using the analogy, I can say that literature is like music; the story or plot is akin to the song’s lyrics, while the writing is the tune. Every part of the sentence structures are equivalent to different aspects of the tune. The verbs could be the base; the subject could be the vocals; the prepositions or punctuation could be the drum beats, so on and so forth. The simplicity or complexity of the words could be equivalent to the emphasis given to the different parts of the song. Or maybe the pitch. Every time a complex word or clause is used, the pitch rises suddenly.

Now imagine if I use a complex word for all aspects of the sentence, then every instrument used would suddenly start playing at a higher pitch and volume. To me, it sounds jarring. To another, it may sound lovely. Like the distinction between classical and heavy metal music—music to one, noise to another.

At the end of the day, though, I only like to listen to the kind of music I want. Similarly, I only want to read the kind of literature I like. And that happens to be simple writing, its music quaint and lyrical.