Fire on my Tongue

I don't Wanna Write

"Are you afraid?"
"..."

"Of what?"
"..."
"It is okay to express; it is good"
"!!!"
"It is okay to be vulnerable; it is good"
"_"
"No, don't look down at those scars.
It is okay to have them; it is good"
"_#$_"
"Don't curse me silently"
":):)"
"Now you smile!"
"The world is noise.
Sometimes, it is okay to be silent; it is good."

- 18-01-19

हट्ट

थेंबाच्या मनात आलं
कोरड्याला जरा ओलं करावं
पण कोरडा हट्टीच

- Jan 27, 2019

मंटो

दोस्तों ने कहा, मैं पागल हूँ 

घरवालों ने इसके सबूत इखट्ठा किये 

मेरा तो खुदसे भरोसा उठ गया 

मैक्रोफोने को पकड़े थरथरा रही थी मैं आज

गले से आवाज रोंदी सी आ रही थी

वह शायद सीने से रोना ही निकल रहा था

भाषण के लब्ज़ों में 

लोगों को बुरा लगा 

भाषण के बाद पीठ थप-थपाये, प्रोत्साहित कर रहे थे

शाम को तुझसे मिली

लैपटॉप के परदेह पर तू हिल रहा था, और जी मैं रही थी 

अच्छा लगा

खुदसे मिलकर

मेरी मेरे पागलपन से पूरी पहचान हो गयी 

मुझे समझ आया 

जैसे माइग्रेन-वाले इंसान को रोशनी सहन नहीं होती

मैं उन्हें सहन नहीं होती 

उनके माइग्रेन-भरे सरों में 

मैं एक अपवाद हूँ 

बीमार तो वो हैं मंटो 

पागल तो वो हैं!

- चाँदनी गिरिजा 
२८-०१-१९

Unbecoming

I accept my unbecoming

Grace, oh grace!

As you crush my back

As I twist

Snap

And fall

As I fall,

In the falling

In the hitting

As my body hits the ground

As my limpness hugs the dust

In the hitting

In the hugging

In this burst of velocity

And the stillness after it all

I smile

Oh grace, oh grace,

I am uncontained with mirth

Look at it, grace!

Look how its crimson spreads above me

Gaseously 

Not swirling

Not in any proud clouds

Quietly lifting above

Hugging the world

On it goes, grace!

As you crouch near me

As we both wait

For the endness of the crimson

Which we know is not coming

In this moment

In this silence

In my complete giving

And my knowing

Oh grace,

We smile

Both of us

Like comrades of a batallion 

You through your twinkle

And me through my red, liquid gurgling

So beautiful this is, grace, 

A beauty such that it excruciates  

I accept this pulsating crucifixion, grace!

I accept your lesson

This unravelling

I accept my grace!

- July 12, 2020

निनाद

आवाज होतंय
आत आवाज होतंय
माझी मांजरं माझ्याशी बोलतात
तसलं काहीतरी
शब्द नेमके कळत नाहीये
पण स्वर कळत आहे
त्रस्त
त्रस्त
कोणालातरी सांगायला हवंय
पण सांगण्यासाठी शब्द कोठे माझ्यापाशी?
रौद्र स्वरात आवाज करू?
त्यांनातरी काय कळणार?
त्यांना ऐकायचं तरी असेल का?
नको
नकोना
झाडाच्या एकांतात का त्याची पानं पडतात?
हिवाळा नसतो, वारा नसतो
तरी त्याची पानं पडतात
त्यानेच पाडली असावीत,
नाही का?
झाड रडत ही न्हवता ना
पानांनी मग घेतलं असावा
झाडाचा निनाद त्यांच्या अंगात
म्हणून स्वतःहून फाडून घेतलं असावा
त्याच्या फांदीवरून
त्याच्या अंगावरून
स्वतःला
पानांना दुखलं असेल का?
आणि
ज्या मातीवर ती पानं पडली
त्या मातीने तरी ऐकलं असेल का?!
- 

०८-०३-२०

Little Fever

I get on in the bustling feminine crowd
It's huge for a 5 PM-Ghatkopar
A Karjat local can suprise you this way
It is consistently crowded :)
Ah, the consistensies of life!
The crowd is a creature
Irritable and heckling
Pitted deep
Like a silly, child-abused ragdoll
Pitted deep in the belly of this creature
I pause and look at myself
My ghost climbs up the railing
And lies peacefully on it
Unhindered by lady bags
I look down at myself
I look up at myself
Our eyes meet
And I realise
I am bored
Bored by disappointments
The dailiness of disappointments
The consistency :)
Life is hard, life is a battle
I accept
But each day, to swallow
That life is pedestrian too?!
Is caste the issue?
Gender?
Religion, identity?
Is poverty the issue?!
When I grew the eyes to see
It used to shock me
But when shocks are daily
Shocks become numb
Shocks become 'reality of life'
You learn 'acceptance'
You chug 'on' with it
Like a silly, child-abused rag doll
You sway sideways
You sway back-and-forth
You match pace with the violent rhythm
The violent rhythm the world teaches you
'Is life'
I blink at myself
I blink back
I look down and sigh
The belly of creature rumbles in angry tones
This creature
This, this, this creature
Would prefer to keep its ugliness
Would prefer to fest in it
It would prefer its pettiness
Its passive-aggressiveness
To harbour and cultivate its hurt
And to hurt and multiply the hurt
This, this, this creature
Would prefer anything but healing
I sigh again, and look up
My railing ghost is sleepy
She yawns at me,
Bored.

- 
31-01-20

Porous

Thank you.
Did you look above today?
Did you see the bird-shaped hole in the sky?
Flapping with your motion
Moving as you move
No, wait, I think it was the moon
Or was it my wound,
Revealed in milky momentum
On your silver-framed glasses?
I had forgotten how porous I am
Once touched,
The touch proceeds
Like filter coffee
To leak through
Through and through holes
Holes through holes
To dungeons
And whole hidden kingdoms.
I had forgotten,
Thank you.

Go Away

Sundering

मधुक

तू धूर आहेस की मी?
कोण तरंगत आहे?
कोण पाहत आहे?
मला दिसतंय की तू हलत आहेस
पाण्यासारखं
वाहत नाहीयेस
पण तुझ्या असण्याला एक 'कल-कल' आहे
कसं सांगू
कसं अनुभवत आहे मी तुला?
पाहत बसावंसं वाटतंय
मलाही तसंच नाचू वाटतंय
"कल. कल."
वाऱ्यामुळे होतंय का?
नेमकं कोण हलत आहे,
सांगशील का?!
मधुका, जवळ येशील का?

सोनं

बाकेवर आम्ही बसलो होतो
चहा पीत
कालवा होता, ट्रॅफिकचा
आम्ही शांत होतो
माझं चहाशी संवाद सुरु होता
मध्येच हसले वाटतं
त्याने विचारलं, "काय झालं?"
"वेड्यासारखी एकटीच हसतेस..."
मी म्हणाले, "अरे माझा आज आईशी वाद झाला."
"कशावरून?"
"चहावरून."
"मग हसतेस का?!"
"वाद झाला म्हणून."
"ऐ!"
"तुला नाही कळणार."

Crossing Over

I surprise myself
In my love for you
The simple unconditionality of it
When someone says you are adorable
I laugh
For I know you in a totality
A totality possible for a second consciousness
I see your darkness
I have been the brunt of it.
I have been through nights
When I have hated and despised you
Agonized over your utter selfishness
Petitioned on why, why you couldn't set a better example
I have wished you should have dissipated
Like water vapour
From my canvas
So I could empty myself from unpleasantness of stubborn, stale, talkative memories
But at turn of each of these nights
However long
A day has arrived
Bringing blue, crisp light
Cracking the shiny shell of my black eyes
Giving me ropes to climb out of my melancholy pit
And notice (again) the wider world
Breathe in its incessant creation
Its incessant destruction
Loosening the chords that bind me to you
Widening my canvas (again)
In which I grow smaller
And you,
An extension of me
Grow smaller alongside
And then I have found within me
The ability to laugh
To forgive your fallibility
Your humaness.
Seasons change and years roll
And I witness my love for you
Changing form
Evolving
It has learned your patterns
It has learned to be silent in face of blatant actions
Only the eyes betray
The twinkle of amusement
And quiet crinks in corner
Soft crinks of tenderness
Soft crinks of a strong, strong love

Chaai

The single-cupped teacher of lessons
A totally unessential necessity of life
Like pickle, like paapad, without which the meal is incompletely complete
Tea is the mighty queen of frivolous panache
Commanding a whole meal-time created for her: the evening snack
And of course the breakfast couldn't be gulped down without her
To the religious ones, she is needed for clearing the sleep fog
To be alternately sipped with cigarette
To beat the cold
To beat the heat
To snuff the headache
To lengthen the happy octave
To cushion the blow (whichever type)
To even celebrate the brand new Urban Ladder coffee table
"Be lamps unto yourselves yourselves," he said
He said, "Seek not refuge in anything but yourselves."
And yet we seek
We find ourselves
And as the moment passes like a chugging railway station
The found bit stays stuck to the black plastic of the IRCTC stall dustbin
Our train moves
We want another station
We yearn for the smell of crushed ginger
We yearn to hear the boiling sugar crystals
The wafting brew breaks our resolve to stay chaste
Most of us
A lot of us
Do not progress to full cocaine
Only to the 'c' of it, like a lop-sided moon
One of which we hold onto
Another which dips into the never-ending pursuit
Of finding refuge
For a lot of us it is chaai
For some it is Old Monk
For some it is chicken biryani
For some, the 'c' dips not in the mouth
But onto flesh
Or onto their entitlements like: partners, children or friends
Or onto their accomplishments: like career, passion or travel
Or even onto great validations: like likes, comments and shares
Whatever the  end of the 'c' end
We had rather seek it
Than bend our heads to look at ourselves
Or be still even after our station has arrived

पन्हं आणि पान्हा

किती फरक आहे?

दोन्ही गोड, दोन्ही लोभस.

दोन्ही उन्हात आराम आणणारे.

कालच माझा कंठ फाटून वाहत होता. मी म्हंटलं स्वतःला, "आता बस. यापुढे नाही." मग कात्री घेतली, ती धडधडणारी नसच कापून टाकली. नसे-सहित सगळंच निष्फळ सामग्रहीला दफन केले.

आह! आह-हा-हा! किती बरे वाटले. कुठल्यातरी पिंजऱ्यातून सुटल्यासारखे वाटले. का बंधिस्त होते मी इतके दिवस? किती बरे झाले हे सगळे घडले.

आज काय मग मन माझं कोकरासारखं बागडत होतं. रोजचाच एकटा प्रवास, आज किती मजेदार झाला! विनाकारण लोकांशी बोलले, हसले, त्यांना हसवलं.

मीच माझा पन्हं बनवला, नाही का? खरंच गोड असतं बरं का!

पण, पान्हा कोठे? गरज भासतच नाहीये आता. लोभ कडू असतं. हम्म्म. कडू असतं लोभ. 

- चा.गि.

('ह.वि.' टिप्पणीबद्दल धन्यवाद)

Mosquito Carcasses

I sit still on this white-sheeted bed wrapped by this beautiful blanket which I wish I could steal (such shades!). The wall-mounted table fan (such irony) gives me company in the silence of the dorm. My dorm-mates have gone for a night journey. Sleep beckons from some deep pit, its voice is feeble. It was innocently interrupted by an excited phone call from my younger sister. My throat is sore from all the speaking I have done today (such volume!). Speaking is a political act. Silence is too. Yet I realised the un-bailability of the former. One is trapped by what one utters. At least for a period. Silence is contemplative and spacious. Speaking, crowded and rushed. Silence = river of time = no end no start = unending. Speaking is time-bound and linear. It is the pebble that raises waves in the present and the future. And hence speaking is also ego-bound. More the 'I's in the discourse, more the illusion. Speaking is illusory. Speaking is also an untruth.

I remembered the goodnight probably belonging to one of my very meticulous dorm-mates. It is nice to be prepared. I switch it on. No mosquitoes now. Only mosquito carcasses. Or is it 'carcasses of mosquitoes.' Even contemplation has a grammar. :)

The 'zzz's of sleep now descend.

River, river

The river said, "there is no time."
But tell me
Tell me
How do I shape the thoughts
Of that ghost of epiphany touching me
Touching me almost
Teasing me :)
What words do I give it?
I have been running
The lone, diligent soldier
Running, running
Tripping, tripping
And then walking
Walking, walking
Tripping, tripping
And now crawling
Yes, Martin Luther King
Your crawling soldier for you!
I am emptied now
My flesh, blood and bones consumed
I am the ghost
The ghost is me.
I am two-dimensional.
I am staring at the river
I am not even gasping
That much breath, forsakes me.
I am still
Still, stiller
The river wouldn't take me
Give me her soothing coolness
She wouldn't fill me
Give volume to my shape
So be it.
I watch the ghost dangling on the water vapours
Teasing me
I am not tantalized!
If anything, I have learnt patience.
"I wait!"
Says Viktor Navorski of Krakozhia
I wait too
I am waiting
Waiting tenaciously
I have teeth of tenacity
I am tenacity.
River, river
Thank you for your lesson
There is no time
Nothing ahead, nothing behind
Only now
There is no time
Yes, yes!
And yet you flow
You are new and old at the same time
River, river
Flowing river,
Wait for me too
Wait only awhile
I am arriving! :)

Dirgha Aayu

The mosquito in the corner is watching me. I know he is watching me. Unbidden to my eyes, to my knowledge. He is a patient one that one. Oh, he is patient. He waits for me to settle into my bed and slip into half a sleep. Yes, just that point — half a sleep. Then he attacks me. He sings in my right ear. Dude, what’s with that? Yes, always the right ear. Then I retrieve my right hand and bang it on the ear. In vain. A few more winks and I feel his brusque touch on my forehead. I retrieve my hand and bang the area. Again, too late, only in vain! Then there may be some love bites [wait, what is that word Rachel uses in Season 2? What’s that word? Anyone? Any F.R.I.E.N.D.S. fans in my head can enlighten me?] on my neck, chin … Grrr. I get up and load up my armament — Goodknight Liquid. I slip down into its sickly sweet smell. The night may be non-controversial post this. Sometimes, however, the sickly-sweet is not available and handy. Sickly-sweet. Grrr. Then I have to rely on my second-in-command — Mr. Fan. Well, Mr. Fan has his eccentricities, you know. He is as the Malayalam catch phrase describes it “either on the aashaan's chest or outside the kalari.” You have to be conversant in Malayalam to know this phrase. If you are not, you could have made out that this has something to do with the martial art of kalari. If you could not at least make that out, well, your general knowledge is not good which is another way of saying that you are a dork. If you do not know what a ‘dork’ is please refer to the great, big F.R.I.E.N.D.S. repository of slangs and similar knowledge systems. Now, coming back to the phrase — well, I would like to explain it. If you know the meaning, please gnash through the next sentence. The phrase refers to the kalari student who, in a fight, either lands on the aashaan’s (master’s) chest or outside the kalari (‘kalari’ here also implies the fight square drawn on the ground similar to a Karate fight square). So, coming back to the original object of eccentricity in reference of which this phrase was used — Mr. Fan is either too slow or too fast. So when the mosquito blips and rips my sleep graph, which rightfully but for him should keep sliding to a calm horizontal into the dawn, I get out of bed and position Mr. Fan from ‘4’ to ‘5.’ Now, as you have already been informed, ‘5’ is too fast and I tend to get cold in sometime. I, then, get up again and position him back to ‘4.’ And then, I do not know how exactly, I spend the rest of the night. The sleep graph is jagged and rough. But that is how it is with the mosquito. I think the mosquito and his brethren could be reincarnations of Zen fight masters. What say?! No wonder I came up with that kalari phrase out of the blue.  

Acts of Love

The day is weary
But the night is young
The starry night plays on my left foot
The violet anklet is snug where it is
I steal a glance at his almond eyes
Red-edged almond eyes
I know he had looked at me a moment before
We are careful not to coincide
My chest is aghast with a wild song
My fingers numb with desire
I want to touch him
My phantom has done some things
Confessed some things
My mortal shell remains frozen
Bitten by chips of reality
Tiny chips that together make a frenzied resonance
That make me calculate actions divided by outcome which could be multiplied by the unknown probability of rejection
Rejection, I know tastes like sawdust
The result is nil
I am still, still
I watch the thoughts die
I watch the moment pass
I witness my suffering end
I witness my small death
I wake up, make my bed
I make him breakfast
By the door, as I leave, he thanks me
Why, I ask
Not asking truly, but as a natural flow of conversation which leads to silence and full stop as I enter the lift shaft
Did you take everything, he asks
I assure him and gravitate down
But I return in moments
My handkerchief is missing
Somehow the handkerchief was important
I ring the bell, he looks for it
We both stand then in an awkward moment of embarrassment
I leave again, without a goodbye
Later, in tea-break,
As I walk towards the loo
I find my handkerchief in my jeans pocket
Where I always keep it - handy
Earlier that day,
The train journey away from his home was quiet
Quiet and sunny
The sunrays entered my left eye from the window as I stared out
Entered and stay put
I was still
I hadn't even thanked him for the violet anklet.

- Chandni Girija
19-11-2017

Stay Safe in Thailand

Mother, you are me
Me, you
But as Gibran said about children
I came through you, not from you
And so now I wonder
Where do I originate?
I used to think,
I had a start
My story began with the stories you told me
Of the day I was born
And of the days later
I thought I had a start
Somewhere from where my memories began to stay-
Stay, etch and institutionalise.
I thought.
I competed against 200 million other possibilities
And won existence
I was chosen in you.
Did you choose me?
Did I chose you?
Are there choices, Mother?
I think there are.
Somewhere along the stretch of time and human existence
A domino was chosen to be pushed
Which pushed other dominoes
And hence we met, in your womb.
Like a speeded Natgeo video
Of a sprout growing from soil
I grew and sprouted
And grew
And kept growing.
Now I am, even larger than you.
And as days go,
I feel you grow smaller.
Like the days you strapped my sling,
I wondered with wonderment,
How you could be so much smaller than me!
Surely, Mother
You are growing smaller.
But I also wonder
If were were to count the age of the lines that existed
The lines of time and existence
The line that I am
The line that you are
Who is older, Mother?
Me or you?
Who pushed the domino?
Do I originate?
Or are we two infinities that have crossed on this graph?
It doesn't matter.
What matters is the intersection continues
The length of lines continue to flow
As they keep intersecting.
As time will have it,
Like the thread roll of a kite,
The finiteness of the intersection on this graph will stop.
You will go your way,
I, mine.
You will keep moving
And I will too.
We may meet again,
Or not.
We may remember some things
Like the dreams I had when I was sleeping in you,
They may recur when you may be born in me, may be in another graph.
May be.
But nothing will be gone.
Nothing ever goes.
It only transforms.
We have told all our tales to the universe
And stored in it every thought, every cell we have shed.
When people will read from the tree of time,
They will read us.
We will occur as thoughts
We will be born again.
But for now,
We are snug in this intersection
We are good
Like a cowboy movie
Let's keep walking to the sunset
(Our hands are already held)
And when the sun plops from the horizon,
Other movies will begin,
Other journeys.
You remember that family photo
Taken in Foto Techniks, when I was four?
I was grumpy with tears
Because you had chosen to wear my gold chain.
Today, again, you have chosen to wear my gold chain,
Twenty-four years later
And with it you shall be landing 2400 kilometres away.
Stay safe in Thailand, Mother.