the broader your mind grows,

the narrower your range of options inclusive of the term 'partner' get. Or 'yaar' as I prefer it.

love loves to hate

'cause it's on the other side.

only half present, anyway

There is a certain fear before putting on a cloak of invisibility. You wonder if you'll be forgotten. Is the peace worth being lost? More importantly, is being forgotten worth the deafening chaos of inner quiet?

The world outside will always speak but lost things are forgotten. Some might wonder but everyone moves on.

Remember, when you take it off, you'll still be in the same place. Your existence just won't have the same place anymore.

Incoherent thoughts aid visibility.

from preadulthood to infancy

I do remember falling in love at 14 with a dark-eyed pretty girl. I remember smiling to myself, full of plans to propose to her when I'd get older, thinking about how I'd talk her out of the idea, or desire, of having 12 children. I blame Karan Johar.

But immeasurable distance and arguments over nonsensical Bollywood films had taken their toll; she faded into incapacity. This is the only other time I can recall as being anywhere near the idea of romance in my life.

I remember gloating around my friends, vaunting how I was above their petty love-affairs and wrist-cuttings, which, at best, lasted for a year. I was content single, comfortable in the indisputable logic that 'single' was not synonymous with 'alone'.

Romantic inexperience stretched on for four more years and then bam, you told me you were an interest(ed/ing, both apply) romantic.

(Unmentionable conversations in the negative space).

I have a love song blasting in my ears and each lyric is registering. This is why I resent you: for this introduction to romantic meanings.

I resent you for taking me by a reassuring, warm hand into this goddamned territory (literally God damned!), pronouncing me unqualified for I was too much of a newborn (snort, really) and deserting me unfed.

I refuse to re-birth. I am too weak to be pushed out. I will not wail; I choose to remain blue for a while more.

Eventually, everyone must (re)surface.

Remember, resentment is never synonymous with hatred.

Words not said to your face have much more life, unmet by refusal and rejection.

God damn disbelief (place your commas as per preference).

Dheet Dhol

A friend wanted me to write something and gave me the topic of Marriage. Even though I don't feel inspired enough, I gave 'something' a try.

----

Drums, that’s what the sound is of.

Drums which the coffee has failed to mute. Stubborn, stubborn drums.

Stubborn wife, too. Or is the complaint the same?

Already late for work but the stop at the medical store is very necessary. God bless the man who developed Tylenol. Or the team, really.

Team…

“This does not feel like a team anymore” she declared, with visible heat on her forehead. Too many lines in the red.

They were dining together after ages. His so-called friends were busy tonight.

He sighed. Heat fell only to spread to her ears and cheeks. Her eyes never gave in easily to scarlet.

“You look beautiful,” he commented, touching her cheek.

“Oh my GOD, you cannot do this!” she exclaimed, her hands expressing exasperation more effectively than her face.

She really did look beautiful. “Do what?” he asked, smiling, wishing the heat would travel below the belt.

Snort. Just the word, not the action. As always.

“This. You cannot touch my face when I’m about to pronounce us a failure!”

“Failure?” He agreed.

“Well…” she hesitated, the lowered volume confirming slight fear.

No lovemaking today, then. Drama time.

“So you think us a failure?” he demanded, no syllable loud.

She gazed at him intently, knowledge flickering visibly in her eyes. Drama died; it had gotten old.

“Yes, I do,” she smiled. It was not a sad smile and he hated it.

“You’re smiling. And you used ‘pronounce’,” he commented, grinning; a grin as hollow as her beautiful dimples.

She searched his face for a minute more. He blurred his focus, smiling at a painting almost abstract now.

“I’m tired. And I’m going to bed. It’s late.”

Very late. He knew it.

“I’m going to step out for a bit,” he called after her retreating figure.

The “of course” remained unsaid, but not unheard.

The dining table was the same in the morning when he left for work. As deserted as it had been when they had sat down.

It always happens. The conversations start with a declaration of a morose conclusion and morosely conclude with the promise of another conversation.

But the drums promise something else.

Heat from the lingual dances. The promise of evaporation.

Evaporating everything except disconnected words, stuck, hovering above in the space between two lovesick poets who could not converse.

And he pops the Tylenol in his mouth, gulping it down with cool mineral water.

Ephemeral quiet in the abyss of literature within.