Silver Spoon

Do they not see that the spoon only looks silver but it’s actually wooden?

Do they not see that the golden spoon in her mouth is laced with slow poison, only she can taste?

Do they miss the cut on the side of the lip of the woman sitting in the fancy car that she tries to hide, unsuccessfully? Have her fancy clothes managed to hide away all her bruises?

Do the drenched silk sheets soak all her tears?

Do the terrors of lonely, unloved days, violence, abuse nor forced penetrations reflect in the vacant eyes of women covered in fineries?

Does the night not leave traces on our faces…do the glittering diamonds make our pain invisible?

What’s the point?

What’s the point of being unpredictable… if one is going to turn into a foregone conclusion?

What’s the point of being rebellious …if one doesn’t rebel against one’s genetic makeup?

What’s the point of the polarity …if one won’t enjoy the roller coaster it keeps one on?

What’s the point in living …if the senses needed to be dulled?

What’s the point of fighting the whole world, when one can’t confront one’s shadow?

What’s the point of being flirtatious, if one’s demons aren’t caught by the horns and made to tango? Look them in the eye, blow them a kiss and slip like you always do!

Did I Go Mad…

Did I Go Mad- Elise Cowen

A couple of days ago, a friend rang to find out if everything was alright. ‘You’ve not been ranting on your blog, when you’re quiet I worry about what is going on in your head, much more!’ she sounded concerned. Sometimes, I forget this is not one of my random notebooks lying around the house with all kinds of arbitrary information jotted in it but a blog that some, albeit a few people read.

What is going on in my head? Melancholy has come to embrace me, like it does…twice a year by the clock, a couple of weeks are harder but nothing to fret over, one bounces back like one invariably does. All kinds of inanimate objects ( that seem more real than most actual people do) surround one. The advantages of being a bibliophile with a terrible memory, I sometimes find poems and prose from a decade ago, that have vanished from my memory. My lack of recollection is no ways implies that the words aren’t par excellence, I invariably forget most of what I did and read, even a day before (The main purpose of maintaining this blog, is to help me remember).

How could I forget this brilliant, Jewish, suicidal woman who slept all day and used black slang? If you know me, you would know why I would like her.

Check her out. This is the last poem she ever wrote-

No love

No compassion

No intelligence

No beauty

No humility

Twenty seven years is enough.

Mother- too late- years of meanness- I’m sorry.

Daddy- What happened?

Allen-I’m sorry

Peter-Holy Rose Youth

Betty-Such womanly bravery

Keith- Thank you

Joyce- So girl beautiful

Howard-Baby take care

Leo- Open the windows and Shalom

Carol-Let it happen

Let me out now please-

Please let me in.

Tu Mauj He!

For someone who doesn’t follow any religion, oddly enough, one tends to find oneself in the vicinities of believers. I’m fascinated by the varied paths that lead to God, exactly the way I am with men (kissi aanken achi he, kissi ki awaaz achi he) but ask me to live with one and I will flee, in the opposite direction. I do enjoy the show, let me admit that. People frantically prostrating in front of a book, kissing a door frame, idol worshipping, beating oneself up in the name of God, all of it is quite lovely to watch and capture. Javed Akhtar, once declared during an interview that if you didn’t give a child a religious upbringing, he /she would be much more logical and feel no need to follow anything, or anyone. I have my doubts about the logical, but with the rest, I concur.

The Qawaals at Qutub Sahab’s Dargah, find my what my brother called ‘nastik’ ways, odd. Ever so often, someone will ask, ‘Andar’ and I sheepishly smile. ‘Apne mein to hum jaate nahin, janaab aap walle mein kyaa kare jaake?’ I want to ask. But people are usually appalled by real talk. So, I buy the flowers, spread them in front of of a door, sprinkle some ittar around that area, light the agarbatis, not at all for a God or for a wish to be granted but for all those who will end up kneeling there, hoping the Sufi, a friend of Allah, will help convey their message to him. There’s undeniably a beautiful energy at these places, that activates a part of you, which is normally dormant and I love the music, all of it, whether it’s the arti, a qawali, a hymn or a kirtan. So, even if you are an atheist, an agnostic or just simply rebellious, like me, it’s a good idea, to visit places of worship just for the vibrations.

The God one believes in, can’t be found in these places, of course. Mine is a limitless one not restricted to a place, not even restricted by good and bad. He can be felt in the wind and seen in the sky. Each time I weep, in the middle of the night, he answers my prayers. He’s in my ego, my ‘chaud’ ( my father calls it), my belief that I will get through it, however tough it is, by myself, against all odds, against the entire world and its mother if it has to be. I’ve felt him in the most beautiful and the most devastating places at some of my most ecstatic and torturous moments. But mostly, I find him in the words of teachers and poets. Every time, I despair, a teacher or a poem appear from somewhere, that propel me forward. Today, the one above did the trick.