In Jennie's Memory

A wrinkling hand, a gloved coldness enveloping the body and a lost gold chain. Memories, emotions and the mountains overwhelm me to tears. It’s not cowardly to cry, it’s not helpful either. The rolling mountains don’t care if you won a lottery, murdered a man or sat still your entire life. So, I've been floating and running. Floating and running till I came to a standstill with the passing away of Jennie Elliot- a dear friend and big brother.

I’ll never see you again as that green dot on facebook

I’ll never see you again as that smiling face that broke into laughter

I’ll never see you again as the man of music who spent hours listening to inaudible melodies

I’ll never see you again as the excellent cook trying to fatten me up

I’ll never see you again as the big brother who protected me

I’ll never see you again as the friend who took me on rides in the mountains

I’ll never see you again as the drinking partner who made me euphoric in silly deeds

I’ll never see you again on a motorbike, tall, handsome and wonderful. Truly wonderful.

I’ll never see you again trading sides with him and me

To be the best man at my wedding day.

I’ll never see you again as the brother who kept my feet warm

In fluffy brown slippers that you bought me

I’ll never have you call me "darling dahling" again

I’ll never see you again Jennie.

But I’ll never want to see you in that grave.

I’ll never want to imagine you buried in a wooden box.

I’ll never want death to touch you.

I’ll never accept this. Say what the world has to.

I love you my brother. I love you as you loved music.

I love you as the walks we took together

I love you as all the laughter that rings painfully in my heart now.

I love you for the memories we made.

I wish we still made them, till we grew old.

I wish you would come back

I would trade places with you. Any day. Without fail.

And now, I’ll keep you alive. In my heart.

I’ll keep you alive, for all that it takes.

A Friend Beyond Borders, Mental and Physical

This piece is NOT political and NOT a depiction of a secret crush on somebody. It's the tiny story of a blooming friendship, a memory in the making, to cherish for years to come. 

'We call it the restroom, not the loo'

Oh well, I still got to pee in there.

'It's a catch-all phrase, like break a leg'

Oh well, I thought you really wanted me safe

When you exclaimed, 'stay safe up there'.

A man of poetry, of painting, of sticky brownies.

A man of suits, of souvenirs, of baseball hats.

A girl of converses, nameless verses.

A girl of quechua, wilderness and peaks.

Where do we meet? Where do we dream?

The crossroads for us are unidentified.

The generous laughter, the intrigue flutter free

From the confines of visa stamps and diplomatic tiffs.

America and India saw each other at a jazz cafe.

America and India met at a Japanese sushi bar.

America and India fought over the merits of the euro.

America and India laughed at the hobbit's big feet.

America and India scrabbled down memories.

And now, America and India have found 

Mildly offensive peace, in poetry.

100 % Rock

On a foray into Meghalaya in September last year, I had a chance meeting with Lou Majaw at The Shillong Cafe. We met on a couple of occasions and I wrote this piece to thank him for rejecting norms and being who he is.

When I go to a bar
I see their faces
Framed for posterity.
Young faces only.
Jim. Elvis. Bob.
Always photoshopped. Always alone.
I wonder then,
Does their solitude encourage our little groups
To see happiness in a pint?
I see Lou Majaw.
Old and grey. And youthful.
Silver hair, denim shorts and a thumbs-up smile.
Always on show.

He is a rockstar to you.
He is a phenomenon to me.
Of transgression, of questions thrown without cringe.
To challenge a status quo.

Then, I look back at this bar.
And wonder, how are we different?
From the barstools we occupy.
Each weekend, through time.

The Piano Man's Jazz

They chuckle, they smile, they forget
You are the original superhero
In the chaos of today.
With your black jacket turned away.

To pay  homage to the blues' gods.
Emphatically. Pa pam. Pa pam.
John Coltrane's Impressions
Of Beatrice's undying love.
Smoothening out the creases of my life.
With each playful caress of the piano keys.

And when the crescendo is at its peak
Mere mortals shall look away.
From the reverberating tunes you create.

That conversation between the angelic piano 
And the devilish drums.
THAT conversation.
Says as much as the first flints
That made fire.
And as little. As you and me, online...

Jazz is the flirtatious romance
Between mountains and rhododendron flowers.
Escalating from red to pink to white.
From passion to poetry.
Pure sound is pure poetry too.
Afterall.

And when the end is nigh
The boys are having fun
With summer roses and autumn leaves.

Outside, the winter beckons.
Toward a jubilant end.
To this jazz recital.

THEY can't take that away from me.

Diwali and That Missing Link

Diwali, when the city forgets to blame
A date, a week of happiness defined by dates.

You sit in your Audi, ordering gifts online to send away
So that you could network and buy more metal wheels.
I watch you from the pavement,
Wondering if I can buy myself a new gunny sack as a treat
To hold all those left-over sweets from your garbage bins

I am the missing link you forget to feed.
I am the missing link electrocuted in lighting up your homes, to invite Lakshmi.

You stroll around the mall, buying candles and sweets
Hoping to find that perfect bride for your well-bred son.
I watch you from the servant quarter
Which you've rented out to immigrants like me.
I miss home too, yet cannot afford to return.
Wondering if you'll light a candle for me too
Or will those only be mine if I am raped in the city?

I am the missing link you forget to love
I am the missing link orphaned while you cram the fridge with foods, to invite Lakshmi.

You chatter to me excitedly about the new phone daddy's buying 
So you can take hotter pictures of yourself.
You're so excited to go on that Europe trip
That your daddy bought you.
I watch your enthusiasm with envy
Wondering if I wore those little hot pants
Would I get away with it too?

I am the missing link you forget to help
I am the missing link walking a desert, where you plant carpets, to invite Lakshmi.

You talk about helping the poor this Diwali
So you could add another insightful idea to your resume
You're known to be the angel activist and voice for us marginalised
I watch how people admire your gusto, your faded kurta.
Wondering in my mind, how do you get away with it?
Your haircut cost more than my monthly wage.

I am the missing link you use as child labour
I am the missing link that sits in the dark, while you add another trophy, to invite Lakshmi.

That missing link is not for us to exploit.
That missing link is not wealth hungry
That missing link only wishes to join- you and me
And create, the complete whole.

Happy Diwali, if you bring the missing link back into the mould.

Noise

The traffic light towers ominously above

In its countdown of your death race.

You call it life, the green signal calls it rat race.

Innocence is shattered into a million dust particles

By the blaring horns here.

The chaste are stripped till they become one

With the savage,

Pruning themselves in luxurious cars

For the midnight orgy called night life

In the city.

Aspire to be one amongst the brute.

Aspire to procure shiny metal packaged in murderous fuel.

And then, you will hear

The symphony of necessary evil;

The song of dis-illusive reality—

Coiled tightly around your dream—city noise.

A Walk with Gustav

The silence of the mountains at night can instill one with a sense of unnerving purity. Even at day time, the birds, bees and an occasional dog barking in a distant village are the only sounds one hears. The sheer lack of any noise somehow tends to refresh my memory.

I am here, in the only place that offers a surreal calmness and yet, I am torn up within to sighs behind this façade of normalcy. I think this is the true definition of ‘life’.

I can keenly feel the transition into adulthood, into boredom, into mental stress that presses upon you, creeps into the crevices of your soul, as eerily as mists and clouds passing across hills. A slow yet steady and dampening catharsis—of impact, ideas and irony.

Gustav too, does not understand my pain. He’s always had a cheering effect on me, helping me alleviate sorrow, blocking away the memories that come as suddenly and as heavily as cloud bursts.

I decide to walk with him amidst the lonely mountains, free birds and a humming breeze drenched in pure snow.

The silence deafens me to a numbness of the mind that veers close to abysmal insanity. I am lost—in every definition of the phrase.

Gustav, however, is rock solid by my side. He looks away when tears fall helplessly from my eyes, onto the rock-table below. He tugs at my hand and pulls me toward the local tea-shop, silently saying, ‘Time to eat’.

While I peck at a plate of noodles and milky, sweet tea, Gustav regards a group of young men with caution. With a slight hint of aggression.

He ignores their bickering and maintains his poise, waiting for me to finish my typically hill station meal.

Gustav and I are more than friends, in one short walk. It is a love that, unspoken, says everything.

Gustav is a white mountain dog. And I am a dusky city girl. The universe works in unusual ways—I learnt and experienced love most keenly, not from or with another human being, but from man’s best and perhaps oldest friend—a dog.