Absolution (I)

Saturday mornings are generally not a thing of beauty. There is nothing much to celebrate except the small matter of some extra sleep, and there is not much to look forward to except an elongated period of solitude, and quietude. The clock is indisposed to help one feel normal — it either appears to be a participant in an equestrian sport, galloping towards an unforgiving noon before one even has a chance to awaken from a richly deserved slumber, or it decides to stall father time on its quest to subjugate all things humanly, thereby dilating every second that one chooses to stay awake to make a good fist of one’s contest with life. The day, as it passes one by, looks grimly at a face and decides that the tranquil state of affairs on the other end is an not an appropriate fitment in its grand scheme of things, and it gently nudges a mind into thinking the same. After all, there are few things as potent in transforming contentedness into existential dilemma as being pointed out by a passive onlooker that one isn’t utilising the life accorded to the one in any manner, significant or not.

While one cannot claim the universality of the above, one cannot contend its relevance either.

So while she lay asleep on their bed without a care in this world, the he was awake and restless, trying to piece a few things together, all the while hoping the seconds hand on the wall clock would at least move as many times a minute as he looked at the clock. One of the two people in the room was perhaps too short on expectations, and thus massively over-gratified on account of that previous night, while the other too consumed with matters outside of his bed to have ever given a solid consideration to the act itself. It could have been the thought of that definitively good-bye moment and the anxiety of life after that; it could have been a general mistrust arising out of the habit of his partner to exact passionate love-making on account of innumerable final good-byes; it could simply have been the result of at least three more dalliances earlier in the day. The lack of sleep was nothing new for him, but that he was awake in another’s company was not very comforting to him. This was a first at his place. All this while, it had always been an assertive “Your place!”

He is not a smoker, so when people talk about cigarette after sex, he gets confused, like he got confused last night. He is not very fond of alcohol either, so when people assume he lacks the fun / celebratory spirit, he loathes them. His room barely has belongings — he lives out of a suitcase most times, partly because he has shifted five times in five years, and does not want to spend a lot on his accommodation. There is a small almirah for a wardrobe and all things precious. The only furniture other than the bed is a reclining chair with plush leather upholstery. There is an abandoned gas stove in a desolate corner of what could be his kitchen area. The toilet is particularly clean, all things considered — he does not want surprise visits turning unpleasant. One of the three walls, which is also the differently coloured one, has the aforementioned clock — a tiny time keeper fully in sync with the overall aesthetic of the place. The same wall has a few hooks for his neat clothes, and a massive Led Zeppelin poster. It could once have been some shade of red. Everything else is white — the two other walls, the floor tiles, the bed sheet, the paint on the door. Except nothing really is white anymore. The chair is lined up against the french window, and the curtain is drawn to prevent voyeuristic pleasures to the neighbours.

He has been awake for one full hour. He has an urge of kissing her, but he has been resisting the same for over an hour now.

As she sleeps, and as time passes, it gets warmer in the room. In the month of August, Mumbai is not really hot. It is rather pleasant. The sky appears like a very dirty white duvet, and whenever the sun comes out, it is generally too timid. Today is no different, just a little warmer. She smells delicious, he recounts from the previous night, when she came along with him after work.

They had gone for a cheap dinner, and talked at length about their work places. It would be wrong to assume that they are dissatisfied with their jobs. He has a white collar job. She has a white collar job. Both have respectable salaries, and both have hobbies they pursue outside work. They have disparate tastes in music. He views anything mainstream with extreme prejudice. She views anything too niche with extreme prejudice. Led Zeppelin somehow manages to squeeze between their choices. He has high regard for well read people. She is content will people who seem to know most things about most things. He is not passionately into sports, but he wants to know what’s the state of affairs in cricket, football, tennis and, at times, Formula 1. She loves basketball, although she has never played on a court. She says she had a board and a net back at her house. The topic of conversation at their dinner was mostly music. Both were mistrustful of the other.

She turns on her side. He looks at her wistfully, shakes his head and goes back to thinking. Again. This time on his feet. He does not want to leave his place before she wakes up. He does not want her to stay after she does.

Conversations are best avoided on matters that matter significantly to the parties involved. It is best to not ask and not tell. It is better to sweep everything under the carpet, hoping that it will eat up all the dust, and when one day when you are shifting houses and trying to bundle the splattered bits of yourself in the room within the carpet, you hope you will not remember any of that residue. As ironical as it sounds, the carpet does really seem to eat up everything. The floor underneath remains as clean as it was when you moved in. But the carpet just feels heavier. And when you leave, you keep looking behind, unsure whether to be suspicious about the spotless floor, the heavier carpet or the lighter person that you leave. It is like knowing that all said and done, you cannot shed certain weight from the ecosystem that you become, and at the same time, becoming paranoid about the dust floats around. That once the dust settles on the floor, it will give away your secrets. To a chronicler who you might never know. It is not a comforting thought.

Mono No Aware: The “aah-ness” of things in general, life in particular

I have never been bothered much about the role words play in songs, especially anything non-Hindi/Bollywood. I have always tended to concentrate on the rhythm and melodies, and have thought of vocals as just another instrument that’s been layered over the soundtrack. That may not be the right way to look at it, but I think that allows me to appreciate each singer in a perspective that is quite separated from their abilities to come up with lyrics that inspire or move. Which is why when I first heard instrumental music, I kinda knew that this will stick with me for good. Of course, the taste has evolved, and I continue to listen to and appreciate music with vocals, but I think there has been a gradual shift in the aesthetic of the music that I want to listen to now.

A lot of what I appreciate now is something I can’t define. I used to hate people who said “I listen to anything that I like. No specific genre”, because that meant I could not judge the person’s musical taste, and I am judgmental in more ways than even I know of. Fortunately or unfortunately, I guess I am gravitating towards that end of the spectrum where you know you can’t define what kind of music you like, which also means I am judging myself heavily here. I like blues, rock-n-roll, rockabilly, country, folk-ish, rock, hard rock, metal, heavy metal, doom metal, symphonic metal (or whatever sub-genre you want to add) and many more genres and jargons. The latest amongst them is post rock, electronic, dream pop, trip hop. Shruti Sunderraman help me with more here. And then of course, anything that sounds good.

On one of these trips to explore music, I stumbled upon the American band Hammock. That was about a year ago. I ignored because I was still firmly wedded to Opeth. And then one day I heard “Maybe They Will Sing For Us Tomorrow”. The thing about post rock is that a lot of it is poetry - something that cannot be defined, but only be felt, like a visceral punch. Not only is it stellar music, but the bands choose their names, their album names and their song names in a manner that instantly transports me to a different landscape. While this is really noteworthy, it becomes even more interesting when all of this is harmonised - when the music evokes the exact same feeling as the name of the song. “Mono No Aware” is one such song. I will leave it to the reader to put in some effort and read what this phrase means. For the lazy ones like myself, it means the “aah-ness” of life, the pathos, and perhaps the sense of wonderment for transience. Janani Rajashekar, I am on the path to becoming a convert, but with slightly more significant things in mind than baby pigeons and pregnant cats.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KjIWriDTptY

This music, and I mean the new kinda stuff I talked about, has helped me look at the art form from a much broader perspective than I earlier used to. There are artists who produce significantly better output than the ones who manage to reach us comparatively easily. It is not easy for these rather not-so-popular, niche artists to wake up day in day out, and keep themselves motivated about doing something passionately, which eventually may not be sufficient to provide for their families. Peter Lindgren of Opeth did not find it easy and quit the band, amid other reasons. Good for him. But there are other young artists who are starting their journey into the infinite universe of music and its audience, and others who have been producing one stellar record after another, refusing to give into laziness and fan-pleasing ideology, fully cognisant that the critic community is more than eager to pounce on anything and everything in a way that may have a definitive impact on their careers. But they still continuously push the boundaries of what is music and who they are as artists, in the process, refusing to be written off or resting on what once was and who they once were.

And then I hear a lot of people, including myself, complaining about their day jobs and wistfully, almost romantically, speaking about their passions and interests. I am not philosopher and neither have I lived or seen enough to be speaking contemplatively about the profoundness of life. But with each passing day, including today when I listened to “Mono No Aware”, the realisation of “enjoy it while it lasts” keeps getting reinforced into my psyche. “It” being everything that goes into defining who I am, right from the tangible, headlong into the intangible. There are far too many complaints we have and as a result, too little time to appreciate all the good things that we encounter. And with that, I will note the usage of “I” and “we” interchangeably.

I may be wrong (and hence the analogies that I make after this may be absolutely pointless), but I think the natural state of the universe is darkness - there are events that lead to light, some of which we see after millions of years. I cannot recall what led to it, but in the same vein, I have this opinion that the natural state of emotions is indifference or nothingness. A lot of what we feel is cultivated as we keep discovering who we are, and what are immediate environment is or how it directly affects us, to begin with. A lot of events help us find our way through the millions of feelings or emotions that are there inside us, latent, waiting to be discovered, and I guarantee you, a lifetime may not be enough to explore each and every one of them, partly because of the analogue nature of emotions - however much we try and sample them, we always miss out. Now, extending the analogy further, there are infinite personalities within us that manifest on their own when our person is confronted with different possibilities. It follows that all of who we are may not see the light of the day in this lifetime, but we often desire to explore every bit of who we are. And for this to happen, we need to move on very quickly to things will help us find ourselves. They say are two ways of looking at a half full glass - half full or half empty. One may indefinitely keep brooding about the amount of liquid one missed out, or consume whatever one’s got and be content, or perhaps while in the process of consuming, also try and look for avenues to refill the glass with whatever quantity of liquid one manages to find on that quest. While the latter two are definitely constructive outcomes, the former is not. Nobody gains anything. That’s what I am talking about. This is nothing that you or I may have never ever thought of. But this is not about that, right!

From where I see, a lot of what’s going on in the world could be a result of the brooding over the half empty glass, and going to the extent of throwing the water away or throwing the glass away, both of which are a massive waste or effort and resources, both being meaningfully injurious, the second even more so. I cannot claim to understand or find a reason behind everything that is happening geo-politically or socio-culturally, but I am not comfortable with the way a lot these problems are being approached. I am not in a position to write detailed essays on these problems, for they are far too complex to be summarised, but let’s just say this - one loses out a lot of oneself when one refuses to see beyond the half empty glass; in the same way, a society / community loses a chance to discover itself /evolve from the literal and figurative rut that finds itself in, into something more meaningful that not only transcends the transience of everything that is world, but also manages to reach far and beyond in redefining what starts becoming consequential for it, if the society / community remains hinged on the emptiness of the glass.

This is not to say that a lot of these problems are not synthetic - in fact almost every single one of them is. We humans are a volatile breed. And we are fully aware. So while we know that we dislike our glasses half empty, we are unscrupulous when it comes to ensuring our glass is not half empty - when presented with the proverbial half empty glass, we somehow manage to steal from someone else, in the process, robbing that someone else of at least half a glass. What we tend to forget is that there happened to be a certain Newton who managed to postulate that every action has an equal and opposite reaction, and in the case of humanity, the opposite reaction is more than equal - eent ka jawaab patthar se. We forget that while some of may be compromising in nature, others are not, which leads to spills, shattering glasses and suppressed identities.

The way we have tried to resolve these issues highlights that we are lacking in compassion, which beggars belief, or rendered inactive by the burden of past mistakes or expected future outcomes. In the process, there is a lot that suffers - humanity to say the least. The below is something that has almost moved me to tears.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ce26fhpPWsw

This is a 5 year old boy, Omran Daqneesh, who was rescued from the rubble of a bombing site. There is no single culprit here. Only the victim. And Omran is more that just a victim. He looks stunned. He is gazing into nothingness as cameras around him whirr. He does not seem flustered, and is surprisingly calm for a 5 year old who is coated in soot, and is bleeding from the head. He looks at the cameras, and looks away. There is an frightening blank space in his eyes. He does not even have gratitude for his saviour. He seems to understand everything that’s going on, but is stunned to find himself as an active player in the scheme of things. And then suddenly, he feels the minor irritation of blood dripping from his forehead and trickling onto his face, disturbing his eyelids in the process. He blinks once, tries to get rid of the irritant, not realising what it is. He feels something hot. Or cold. I can’t even imagine. He feels something wet. He looks at his bloodied hand. There is that infinitesimal part of a second where he looks horrified. He does not know what to do. He seems flustered. But he breaks eye contact with his hand, looks away, and tries to wipe the blood on the chair.

I cannot even imagine to understand how Omran would have been feeling. I cannot even imagine to put myself in his shoes. I cannot even imagine to start saying that I am heartbroken. What I can say is that from the time I started watching the clip to the time it ended, there was smoke in my throat. Nothing else. I choked up. And this is not the clueyness that Tim Urban (Wait But Why) talks about. This is not imagination that fuels my feeling. This is something beyond description. This is visceral. Someone else broke Omran’s glass on his head, and we’re not even getting into whether it had anything in it at all. For all I know, Omran never had anything, not even the glass. Afterall, he is just 5 years old. Syria had become what it is today much earlier.

Mono No Aware. The pathos of things. The transience of Life. I have never felt more insignificant.

7 days of static

The title is heavily inspired by one of my favourite artists these days. I always wondered if they missed a "3" at the start of the band's name. It would sound much more routine and more much grandiose at the same time. A quick look at their wiki page, which I am not a fan of admittedly, but which nonetheless provides some quick, cheap information, can give you some of the origin stories of the name which are pretty interesting, almost as much as the band. When I first listened to their songs, I placed them in the secondary bucket of the 50 odd interesting bands I stumbled upon over the course of a fortnight while in office. Since then, they have grown on me like no other band, and with their new release, well, shit's gotten real.

No Man's Sky is an ambitious sci-fi game. Gazillion planets and hence, gazillion scenarios, which would require a gazillion years for a human being to complete. I am not a gamer - never played any video / computer game ever - and this game still does not resurrect the non-existent gamer in me, but the concept sure as hell sounds amazing. Couple this with the fact that the soundscapes for the entire gazillion years that would be required to finish the game are all created by the band, and generated during the game by computer algorithms, and that the experience would be different every time you play the game, makes me lose my shit!

Which is why, when on weekends I am at home and watching movies like "Singh Sahab The Great", "Sheshnaag" or "Mumbai Ki Kiran Bedi", I realise there is more to life than going out on weekends for pointless (and expensive) dinners or boring pubbing / club-hopping - I stopped consuming alcohol last November, and I am very awkward with dance music, which may have resulted in me antagonising a very dear friend. Sometimes good music makes it really worthwhile to do nothing, which, while a continuum of the rest of my day, is still of a different kind. The soundscapes that music is capable of drawing are potent instruments with which to shrug off a lot of weekend blues, and yet all of it happens in a timeframe that does not appear to move because of the manner in which the overall experience subdues any externality. 65daysofstatic is a project where band members are acutely aware that they don't sell a multitude of records, and that they are no longer 21 while making career decisions, and that continuing in a band may mean they have to work minimum wage jobs while still creating an output that they are satisfied with and one that wins them the adulation of an ever expanding fan base. And they still do it. And they still call themselves 65daysofstatic.

A lot of us, on the other hand, are struggling to come to terms with who we are, and who we could not be. There are a lot of self help books dealing precisely on this subject. My aim is not obsess over what I think is guess work - I stopped guessing answers when I was taking the Bansal Classes entrance exam in 2005 A.D. - about what could be, but to highlight that just like a lot of other things that happen in this universe, we just happened to be humans. Whether of not this points at some divine machination or a greater scheme of things for us is something that I am not sure has an answer. Neither do I need / intend to try and find an answer. I am too lazy and too indifferent towards a lot of "life" shit, to go about this business. Then there is small matter of the good and the bad, the socially acceptable and the socially not-so-acceptable, the whole debate around choice, impressionable personalities, passions and more. The purpose of life is to live, I think - you are born and you will die. In the interim, you will need food, shelter, clothing, crave for luxuries, attain them and get bored of them, or in some cases, never manage to, but eventually, all us live. All of us live to talk about shit, all of us live to become someone, all of us live to live multiple persons. All of us live, whether lonely or surrounded by people, sociopaths or gregarious, introverts or extroverts, heroes or villains, superstars or the uncelebrated. But all of us live. (Of course, some of us of course make the terrible (according to me) choice of deciding not to live). So I don't think it helps when people talk in exalted or subdued manner about what life is to them, or what life has done to them, or the surety with which they claim to know who they are.

A lot many of us are now in environments different to that we have not been brought up in. So our sensibilities around a lot of socio-cultural things happening around us are playing catch up. And amid some of this cultural shock, we tend to go back to the comforts of our imaginations. It is a fascinating thing to do. We create our own synthetic universes, we create our own scenarios, we create synthetic feelings, we manufacture sympathies, we sing paeans, we assume personalities and draw up interactions that are well nigh impossible in the real world. Basically, we mostly self-aggrandise or self-loathe. The interesting thing here is that we are almost always biased and our choices / actions are almost always justified in a universe that is anyway of our own making. So while we warm ourselves up to our social environs, we still feel the need to reassure ourselves of who we are in a bid to make peace with the nibbling sense of being out-of-place and out-of-time.

The sense of static has somehow never been accepted by us. Evolution has always been at the forefront of any agenda at any point in human history. We have always worked away from inertia, and towards things that would seemingly define us in the contemporaneous social context, and mark the change in epochs. Stone age to iron age to bronze age to industrial revolution to so many more ages in between to space age to today. And yet, it is surprising how few of us have ever actively contributed to this movement away from the static. Passively, we all have. Quite a lot of us have jobs that we don't like, quite a lot of us have opinions which remain just that, quite a lot of us are torn between socially acceptable and personally desirable, quite a lot of us live the same lives 7 days a week, 365 days a year, quite a lot of us are static in a certain sense. So it is not difficult at all to see ourselves in an empathetic light. A lot of us are living lives that will not leave a mark in history or make a difference in the larger scheme of things, and yet all of us are living a life that will forever define our epoch. We are all creators of our time as much as we are its constituents and products.

I love static. I love limbo (a wrong usage of the word, but I want to use it anyway), and can absolutely see no reason why it is not acceptable. Except that it is not. And the Lord almighty has devised things that will keep reminding how pathetic it is. Our family, our friends, our girlfriends, our colleagues, our conscience, and of course social media. I am not accusing any of the aforementioned, but, you know! Internet (I will use internet and social media interchangeably, though they are not in a strict sense, but I am sure you will understand) is a very powerful source of information and at once, a sounding board, though not just a passive object. It is a throbbing place, and we are coming to terms with a reality many of us would never have thought of - the internet, and social media specifically, is transforming very rapidly into an echo chamber, reinforcing anything that we want. While it has made our lives easier in more ways that I know of or can count, it is like walking on a tightrope. We are all creators of internet as much as we are its constituents and by-products. We all live two lives today. We are happy in our real lives, and happier over there. We are sad in our real lives and sadder over there. We are gregarious in our real lives, and even more so over there. We are lonely in our real lives, and even lonelier over there. I am convinced that there is at least a smidgen of truth in the fact that this is a spiral.

Ad yet, a lot of us choose internet / social media over real life experiences (well, everything we do is a real life experience for us in a certain sense). Partly because we don't have a sense of belonging for where we are, partly because we are escapists, partly because we are strangers in stranger lands, partly because we all passive-aggressively crave attention and internet is like a choupal - anyone who manages to make enough noises in the right manner is very likely to get some attention.

And yet, all this while, I am at home on a Friday night writing emo Facebook posts about my loneliness, living a 7daysofstatic life. Or 365. I can't see the difference anyway.

The burden of guilt, the complex of superiority and other things

I am many things but a clean conscience. And I don’t flinch when I say that. Of course the title talks about the burden of guilt. Fortunately, I don’t quite feel guilty. There is a different emotion that I have come to associate with each of the stains on the otherwise immaculate orange board. In case you didn’t know, orange is the new black, and more than guilt, popular culture is a cause of concern these days for me. I am trying my bit to catch up though: with conversations around the utility of Tinder with colleagues at work, by writing poetry in free verse and lapping up all things spoken word, and eating salads at restaurants - just watermelon and cheese, and sometimes apple and walnuts. Trust me, the things that make me feel guilty are far more trivial that some of the solutions taught to me in Mathematics 101 in college.

So I feel guilty about having stolen the mithai that were given to my sister when I was a 4 year old. I feel guilty about lying and coaxing my cousin to lie when I hit him with a stone in his head, which then burst open. This was a when I knew about the repercussions. I felt guilty about forging my dad’s signature in the school diary when the teacher wrote a bad remark. And so guilty that I tore that portion from the sheet, stuck another piece of paper, and asked my dad to sign. I thought that was redemption, and proudly showed it to the teacher. For that bit of honesty, I got shamed publicly. My perception of guilt, honesty and justice is not quite straight since then. I realised guilt is not quite strong as an emotion, and its associations with life changing experiences is just a disservice to the evolution human race. That last line was dramatic, but that was just to prove how strongly I feel about this. Is guilt over things worth your time? It was then, because I atoned, and that feeling of redemption is priceless. The point is can you atone for everything that falls in the broad arc that “guilt” is, and how effortlessly you characterise the follow-ups as atonement.

I felt embarrassed when I was caught cheating. I did not feel guilty. I did not regret it. I regretted being caught, though. There was nothing about my morality that I questioned. I was embarrassed because of the public perception that goes around with getting caught while cheating. See, I was never a bright student, I got lucky most times. And I was a terrible cheater, and I never learnt. So I had to pay the price someday. The iron price or the gold price, would you ask? Iron price, I would reply with a “popular-culture” alert. And after a point, I was do disengaged with it that I gave up. So, essentially, there was never this burden associated with embarrassment. There never was remorse, except until when I realised I was being insincere to a lot of people, and to myself. Except when I realised that I was hiding behind lame ass excuses cover up for my attitude toward certain things, and negligence toward most others. I felt guilty, and I still carry that burden. Fortunately, I did not experience shame (a good thing I guess).

As I grew up, I started experiencing even more varied emotional responses for all the variety of situations that I found myself in. I also felt surprised that there were so many different words, and each of them meant different things to different people. Happiness, joy, ecstasy (I can’t say how popular culture sees it), sadness, ennui, and many such others. Headache, sometimes, and Siddharth Warrier, please help here. And then there was this intense feeling which made me questions certain choices I made. And I don’t mean choices in polls or in some fancy restaurant menu, or career choices. These were choices that defined me as an individual. These were choices which people who know me would remember me with. I could not express why I felt how I felt. This was a burden far heavier than guilt. And I took remedial measures. Can I call it atonement? I can’t until I am sure of what it means to me. I have been trying to be a better human being for quite some time now. I only wish people took note.

And here is where the something else kicks me. See, I am an extremely proud individual. And of the unfortunate few who still follow me (I am vain), and read me (I am vain), and know me (after all I have 450 friends on Facebook), you are right to question if this is the only thing I have to write about, and if this is the only thing about me as a person. Well, everyone is proud of who they are. And I mentioned that the fact that I am not ashamed is a good thing. And I have lived however many years I have in this super structure built of the sense of superiority about myself and derision towards everything else, guarded fiercely by this “feeling secure” myth. This is not a rehash of the last essay. But you see, this is important because very few people affect me. I am not someone with immense social skills. I am a active part of The Poetry Club, Mumbai, and yet I almost never find myself in conversation with any of the 30 odd people I see every month there. So Facebook lies. Of the few strangers I met, I burnt the bridges quite soon. I deeply regret. I feel contrite. I have made sincere efforts to change. But bridges once taken down are not easy to rebuild, and once I digress it is difficult to keep track. The thing is I have conditioned myself over all these years, just like Willy Loman did, to believe a few things which may or may not be accurate. I am satisfied with this. And I have a reputation to keep up. “Cocky loner”, you would think.

So whose opinion really matters, if at all? To me, everyone’s. I sat down writing this essay thinking about why opinions matters, and I am doing a very bad job. But for all I know, I can certainly claim to have been affected by any negative opinion about myself. Even if the rightful holder of that obnoxious opinion happens to be someone who I will not allow even a centimeter square of space in my life. Because opinions matter in private discourse. I don’t have an awesome reputation, but I don’t deserve an awful reputation either, when I most certainly am not an awful human being. People are judgmental, and I say this because I know myself. When I was sent to the principal’s office in school on account of indiscipline, he told me reputations take a lifetime to build, but a fraction of a second to be destroyed. I did not have much back then, but it stuck with me. You don’t know me, that’s how life is. Should you say good things about me? I will oppose this as vehemently as I would if someone did not know me said not so good things about me. The question of justice is fascinating. Popular dialogue says pronouncing a guilty not-guilty is bad, but even worse is pronouncing an innocent guilty. People have their reasons for it, and not without merit. The point is, prejudices are a direct consequence of opinions, opportunities are a direct consequence of opinions, and hearsay is a direct consequence of opinions. And after a point in time, it stops mattering who the rightful owner of the opinion is. I can grandly distance myself from these opinions, and claim to not be affected by them. I can very well say that the people who need to know me, and the people I need to know, know better. But we all know what happened with Caesar, Rome, Brutus, Antony, Brutus again, and Antony again. Perhaps Cinna the poet would be a better example. So while I can’t control opinions, I can’t control a lot of other things that go along with opinions as well. Atonement, case in point, to circle back to the the burden of contrition. Societies seldom have a clean conscience. Opinions are nothing more than trials, and when it goes against you, you don’t really expect reason to prevail. “Crane: Death or Exile”. “Commissioner Gordon: Death”. “Crane: Death it is, by exile”. I quoted this because, you know, I just wanted to. Also, Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer.

This is where the “feel secure” myth shatters, and the complex of superiority breaks. We as human being crave reassurance. Some find within themselves, some reach out to the society. A tug of war may never lead to progress, but reassurance and the feeling that you can come home eventually, does a lot in ensuring that you keep tugging at something in search of satisfaction. No one wants to battle a lost cause, which of course is as subjective as poetry is, but it makes sense to don the pragmatic hat at least once in a lifetime.

Conscience is a strong enough force to rattle the grandiose facade of the complex of superiority, and trust me, we don’t really need modular opinions in an ever shifting and shape-changing, make-believe castle that our lives are.

The burden of Guilt, the complex of Superiority. Or the other way round.

I am many things but a clean conscience

And I try scrubbing all of that blemish

Which sullies an otherwise impeccable orange board.

In case you didn't know, Orange is the new black.

And I never liked things all white.

Some tell me, gather yourself, it's alright

But I always suffer a low flying panic attack

As I negotiate the long and treacherous storyboard

That a naked conscience is.

A nuisance, in common parlance.

I go to bed with it, and wake up with it everyday

Hoping, that as the glaciers in my lacrymal glands melt

The proverbial Ganges will wipe my slate clean

No walk of atonement, no trial by combat

And it will be sunny then, like it always is in Philly

Everybody loves Raymond, everybody will love me

And that's where my mind becomes the savvy diplomat

You're the Mozart in the Jungle, it says with a gleam

You may've culled the nilgai, the odd boar or two you've felled

But remember, this is the jungle, and that's just it's way

In a world full of sinners, you're the guiding light

Afterall, who of your age in this room is still chaste 

You've broken a few promises, stolen a kiss or two

But trust me sans the thug life, it's all a massive waste

The many-faced God!

Sounding boards are very interesting, very harmless, in fact. At least I think so. In the way that they really just project the sound from the source, only sometimes giving the feeling of having amplified the source. Like parabolic headlamps. You get a podium, you get a sounding board, in most cases. So under these considerations, I think soundboards are almost innocuous, harmless in the least, and a bonus in the best case, which, despite the apparent bulk, somehow manages to convince the customer to carry it along. I am convinced social media is not too different. This is not a tirade against social media, although the title could mean an easy segue into this dangerous territory. While you are caught up in this haze, I was quietly slip in another analogue. Humans.

I don't need to repeat this, but I will. We humans are a curious species, and I am too incompetent to be discussing either the complex evolutionary process or the equally daunting psychological and sociological factors that shape us. All I know is that it is very difficult for us to be us, to be what we want to be, at all times. Oscar Wilde might either actually have a quote or two on what I want to say, or perhaps a few must have been falsely attributed to him in a very matter-of-factly manner. I have been 27 different individuals up until now. Or may be more.

I have questioned this to myself. Am I a different individual while at work versus the one who might come across as a borderline anti-social at home versus someone who is popular amongst his friends versus who is very blunt, almost hostile when with strangers versus a very friendly and mild-mannered individual for relatives (even the distant ones) versus an indifferent, almost dismissive prick for minor acquaintances. This need not necessarily mean my behaviour is limited to the aforementioned when with the aforementioned categories or platforms. And then there is the small matter of the all pervading, omniscient, the peeping jack that social media is. Am I someone who is almost a non-entity on social media (implies not a single fuck given about social media presence or activity) or someone who secretly craves all the attention that social media can really provide?

Coming back to sounding boards, I love finding one for myself every now and then. When I am bored, when I am excited, when I am dejected, when I am insecure, when I am angry, when I am guilty, when I come clean, when I am embarrassed, when I feel contrite, when I need revalidation, and well, put in as many emotions, I need one. The interesting thing is, somehow, I think I want a different for every emotion. The bad news is I don't think I manage to find any. I don't think I need to project the need for any. I would rather live two different lives. One an apparently very turbulent, but private life, and the other, very ebullient, if sometimes caustic, and very secure individual. I used to have something of a sounding board not too long back. But the thing is, unlike the inanimate sounding board, humans are real, and temporal.

Which brings me to social media. Do I find refuge in this immensely cryptic and nebulous world, or perhaps do I seek one? And here, unlike the inanimate world, social media is more real that the real. More real in the sense that it has grown into this all consuming mobster (or monster, whichever way you call it) with a very distinct character of its own, and a very distinct way in which it acts and reacts. Just like humans as sounding boards can be frustrating, social media can be too. Just like humans as sounding boards can be endearing, social media can be too. The difference is I can easily switch my sounding boards in the human world, replacing one with the other with time and with mood, but I can't do the same, not at least now, in the social media world. That is a very challenging proposition to me. Because while reflecting or perhaps enhancing your personality as a sounding board, social media can spit. Ugly. In your face. Definitely not harmless in any way. In the human world, we choose sounding boards. In the social world, it is almost like the sounding board choosing the source. Choosing who it embraces.

For me, I am secure without a sounding board. Partly because I am happy with living 27 lives in two worlds. I would have been at least a couple more by the time I finish writing this. And no, I am still not tempted to call this dishonesty. I would perhaps just say, we are all the worshippers of the many faced God.

It don't feel right!

I am a very proud man. To the extent that I have been at the receiving end of taunts right from my school days. Of course, I cannot really reconcile to the negative connotations that come boot-strapped to the idea of pride. I would think it to be a virtue to be proud. I always was clueless about whether the jokes were really meant to be hurtful, because never once did I feel that way. Little perks of being really good when it comes to having a half decent vocabulary. So one day I sat down with one of those not-so-friendly classmates for a chat. Man to man. Why did he really want to insult me? And why did he think calling me "proud" would really further his cause?

After trying to persuade me into believing what he wanted to convey and what he ended up conveying were one and the same thing, he ended the discussion with exasperation. "It's one and the same thing, dude." That was my little moment of realising two very important things. First, it is important to understand what exactly do I feel. Second, it is equally important to convey it in the most accurate manner. The second bit comes with a little rider. We all, eventually, might end up knowing how we feel, but because we are bound by the mode / manner / instruments of expressing it, we can only hope to be as close to accurate as possible.

I have used both of the above through all these years with utmost discretion, and alacrity. To the extent that I, really, realize what was going through up there only when I am no longer in that state of mind. This is a complicated baggage to carry, I think. Because hypothesizing does little beyond giving a false comfort of being in control. I don't remember almost half the sequence of events that may have transpired, which may have made me feel whatever I did. Plus, when deconstructing the thought, the process ends up holding greater value and a higher priority than feeling that feeling, and then, well it's a maelstrom.

The unending quest to attach definitions to everything that we encounter is a terrible truth. I have always felt the urge to document in my mind - I am not a man of letters - every second of my life. It's like reliving every second twice. I have lost out a great deal because of this. But I take solace in the sure-footedness that comes with it. And like every archive, I need to group everything. I don't know whether the human mind has an infinite capacity to recollect things, or better still, never lose track of anything. So I cluster a lot of dissimilar emotions and memories for easy retrieval. It is mostly confusing and sometimes pointless. But that's the way it is.

I am not a saint. So I have done a lot of not-so-good things in my life. And I am an immensely proud individual, who takes a lot of pride in his moral excellence. So by all account, I must have, at different points in time, felt ashamed, guilty, regretful, remorseful or contrite, because of my actions. The thing is, I have been terribly failing at being able to successfully identify what I may have felt. Unlike a multiple choice question, I cannot solve this through elimination. This then ultimately decides what I choose to do about stuff that I don't feel quite right about. And so, many a misdemeanour might have remained unaddressed, many a slight left untended. While, of course, in my zeal to set things right, I may have caused myself and others, much embarrassment, on matters that did not exist.

I am a man extremely confident in my abilities. Whatever they may be about. To the extent that I have live a major part of my life in what I hear being referred to as a superiority complex. I have, what we Indians love to call an attitude problem. I am arrogant. I am condescending. I am obnoxious. But I am extremely humble, extremely courteous, extremely well mannered.

And yet, something don't feel right. You may have the same opinion at thing point in time. Gotcha!

Harlequin Forest

The forest of October, heathen sight

Is at once inviting, and forlorn

Lurking midst the catacombs of night.

The garden of my mind beckons the trite,

And distancing from senses that adorn

The forest of October, heathen sight

Proclaims the advent of the sun, her might,

Oblivious of that drape, tattered and torn,

Lurking midst the catacombs of night.

But I choose pathways winding that benight

My judgement, and find myself reborn.

The forest of October, heathen sight,

A shadow of itself, a sorry plight

A maze replete with faces glum and worn,

Lurking midst the catacombs of night,

No longer oozes wrong, nor screams its right.

My garden mind is now a prickly thorn,

The forest of October, heathen sight,

Lurking midst the catacombs of night.

Who does not want to be loved?

I am insecure to the "V". That is as far as the alphabets in my name would allow me. I am, in equal measure, consumed by the self. Like everyone in this world, I would love to think that I am unique in my own special way. It is a very reassuring thought to nurture. However, because of all the ontological ironies associated with human race, I know that the sense of uniqueness of my being, and the nature of insecurity that I almost continually live in, ceased to be unique the very moment they germinated. I can keep going round and round with this thought, until that round becomes an vortex. A maelstrom. The good news is that I am a tad too insecure to do that.

When I was a child, I was curious about a lot of things. Immersion rod in particular, and what would it feel like to "feel the electric current". I tried a sample set of activities to determine that. I used to think feeling the current would mean feeling the heat, because the TV used to heat up, the bulb used to heat up and the iron use to heat up. So I used to touch the buckets with the rod in it. The metal ones were certainly hot, but a different kind of hot. Then we studied electrolysis, and I used to dip my hand in the buckets just to see if something accumulated on my fingertips. In retrospect, I am glad I did not think of producing oxygen. The last set of experiment was pouring water into the bucket with the rod, and trying to gauge the current in mid-air by touching the stream. Every time, I got a shock. A mild one. But I had enough conviction to carry out each of these experiments, despite the elderly wisdom floating around in my house. Were I to substitute the "electric current" with "myself", I am afraid I might not have much to say. 

Which makes me wonder whether, if at all, I am encountering a chicken-egg problem. Is it my lack of conviction that prevents me from doing a lot of things, and for the conversation to be coherent, digging deeper inside of me to be at peace with my self, or is it the underlying insecurity that prevents that conviction from building up to a point where it warrants any relevance? All my hitherto-uneventful life (ok, that's a lie), I have always put up a brave face in the events of existential crises. Whatever that means, and I am sure I have gotten the wrong interpretation, if only as a result of an excessively liberal usage of the phrase in the contemporary social narrative, I have plodded past each of those situations and emerged even more brittle from the inside. Mainly because I chose not to tackle the "why?" of those phases. Additionally, because people have opinion of me that I need to live up to. And most significantly, because I have been dispassionate for the better part of my life. 

I hate spirals, and like every other ontological irony, they keep pulling me back. This time because I say I have been mostly dispassionate, and then I propose that I have had existential crises.

I am a conformist to the "T". I want to be loved, to be the center of all attention that can possibly be in any ecosystem that I am a part of. That would mostly keep me happy, and embarrassed. I am an iconoclast. I have questioned myself on a lot of things that are as far from the value system we've been brought up in as can be. I hardly care about a lot of things (except attention, and may be some love). And as a result, hardly question a lot of things, which in turn makes me a conformist, again.  The difficult part is, I expect to be a part of narratives / conversations I never bothered to be in. This is mostly like, and science geeks correct me, expecting a reaction without any action. 

The terribly narrow world that I mostly confined myself to is decidedly expanding at a rapid pace, opening a window for me to experience a lot of things I thought were surplus to my existence. Who, afterall, does not want to be loved?

Sonnet XXXIV: A smidgeon of morality

I scrub a blot of moral code on my

Person. I wake up to mildewed pledges

Devoid of character. Unsure, I try

Washing off those layers, blunting edges

That once cut gaping crevices in my

Conscience. Guilty, I, once bled profusely

With penitence abounding. Now belie

All I stood by. Now, just hanging loosely,

I stare at all that’s come undone, and how,

Wonder wherefore rectitude confined me

Or was I too indulgent to avow,

All this while, the comforting majesty

Of bending moral fibre, wishfully.

That’s all we do, that’s all that has to be.

Sonnet XXXIII: Murder

April. Sundown. Tangerine. Horizon.

Banyan. Houses. Gushing. Sunlight. Beauty.  

Shadows. Twosome. Naked. Breathless. Undone.

Rustic. Brassy. Sweaty. Regal. Snooty.

Egress. Creaking. Peeping. Tripping. Giggling.

Calling. Chasing. Timid. Lusty. Joyous. 

Attic. Swelter. AC. Chilly. Cuddling.

Romping. Stumbling. Idle. Idol. Pious.

Plucking. Heavy. Granite? Marble. Secret.

Stairway. Nervous. Candle. Cobweb. Spider.

Parchment? Picture. Scary. Hoary. Undead.

Darkness. Flutter. Ravens. Murder! Murder!

Footsteps. Leaden. Metal. Clanging. Gruesome.

Splatter. Gory. Silence. Naked. Twosome

My take on gender

Perspective 1

I am not the only child in my family. Well, it is questionable whether I am a child anymore, but that aside, I have grown up with my sisters. 4 of them. I have grown up in a joint family. And I can boast of having been exposed to a multitude of arguments, opinion and perspectives on gender. And this is where the catch lies. I am not going to spill any more beans about my family. What I will do is tell you my experiences and sensibilities. Trust me, this has not shaped what I am going to talk about now.

Ladies and Gentlemen, my name is Vivek Sharma, and I am not the co-founder of the Poetry Club Mumbai. I was born and brought up in Bhagalpur, Bihar. Left home 10 years ago and have since lived in Kota, Guwahati and now Mumbai. Perhaps a journey typical of a small town boy, trying to make a place for himself in this world. A dear friend asked me yesterday what was it that would keep me occupied this weekend. I told him I would be celebrating gender at The Hive. He mocked at me, not because it was funny, but because he wondered who I would be targeting.

It is not easy, trust me, to convince myself to talk about gender. Not in the least because I would be talking to people who are far more sensitised to gender than I have been. Not in the least because I am intimidated when people talk about gender. Not in the least because I am still trying to build an opinion basis which I can talk intelligibly. And importantly, not in the least because more than 70% of friends I have are girls.

Ok so my side of the story now. I kind of get uncomfortable when I see a girl smoking a cigarette. I get scandalised when I hear a girl hurl abuses. You know the ones I am talking about. I freak out when I see a girl driving a motor cycle. And I still get uneasy sometimes when a Eunuch passes by at a traffic signal. To some, these might be cultural shocks for a small town boy who has moved to Mumbai, of all cities. To others, these might be instantiation of a staunchly patriarchal mindset, or rather a very regressive mindset. I am still trying to figure out, and trust me. But where these arguments converge is gender.

We are here today, not because we don’t already know what the issue is, nor because we care any less. In fact on the contrary. We are here so that we can step outside of our activist selves and scrutinise the deep rooted notions we have about gender. To lend a voice to the innumerable instances in our everyday life where we condone or perhaps, to put it mildly, overlook acts or notions which our activist alter-ego would vociferously condemn. I am not saying we are hypocrites. I am saying we need to talk a little more in the spaces around which our society flourishes, or otherwise languishes under the cloak of tradition and culture. We are here because if we find ourselves in discomfort when subjected to ideas that break the gender mould, we should know that we are the ones compromising the movement towards celebrating the individual. Gender is my right, not anyone else’s wrong.

Perspective 2

It is not very difficult either, getting burdened by the sheer force of the topic we set out to talk about. As human beings, we are very comfortable living in narratives that have prevailed for a long time. Ideologies are an inseparable part of such narratives, and as communities, we are very passionate about defending ideologies, and holding on to them. In my short lifetime, I have seen the public discourse around ideologies evolve faster than most of our society. I am a part of the same society that becomes an easy target when it comes to passing the buck. We are here because we don’t want to be an easy target.

And this has put us into a rather fortunate position of talking about matters which would have seemed alien to the now developed nations at this stage in their history. As Indians, we seem to have evolved much faster. The important bit here is that our evolution is as much conditioned by the times we live in as the evolution of gender was.

My name is Siddharth Warrier, and I am a doctor by profession. I have built a perspective, and at the risk of sounding very much like everyone else present here, I dare say a unique perspective, on gender through my understanding of the evolutionary history of humankind. And I think we are here today not only to undo gender, but also mould perspectives through a discussion that itself makes an attempt to understand why gender in the first place. I will begin with sexuality.

From an evolutionary sense, why does sexuality exist at all? Most plants are hermaphrodites, that is, both male and female characteristics found in the same organism. While only 5% of animal species are hermaphrodites. This separation of sex features is important for a reason - to grow as a species. It was only by dividing the genetic library, and selecting different mates, that enough mixing could happen to create better individuals for natural selection to occur. 

Now we come to human history, and their attempt to deal with sexuality. Sexuality is natural. Gender is manmade. A simple Google search reveals differences between meanings or definitions of sex and gender. What this has not been successful in doing is dispel notions that prevail around what these concepts means.

In the beginnings of society, humans divided the roles of early society between men and women based purely on physical attributes. Men were stronger and more capable of gathering wood or farming, while women were capable of giving birth to offspring and caring for the household. At that time, these roles were neither better nor worse than each other. They were equally essential for mutual survival.

Fast forward a few thousand years, and the surroundings have changed, but not the definitions of roles. This is explained by inertia of the collective public. Neither has man evolved from their role of 'protectors', nor woman from 'protected'. In a construct where labour, in any form, is being replaced my machine, do we really need gender identities? We are increasingly getting stripped bare of the rationales that existed for as long as humankind, for us to be able to define gender.

How ironic, that the more we progress, the more basic things seem. We are still a species, evolving in search of identity. I am here because I feel the need to be able to deconstruct gender from sex.

Perspective 3

When I was growing up, sex or sexuality was a taboo. As a matter of fact, a liberal discourse was a taboo. Which did nothing but stunt my growth as an individual who could rationalise a lot of ideals that I lived by. Expression of self, physical and otherwise, was limited in a certain respect. As I grow up and look around myself, there are many avenues where I see a disconnect. And I am not saying this purely because I live in Mumbai. I am saying this because I see this disconnect even in the most cosmopolitan of the Indian cities. And this spreads to virtually every facet of human life. Starting from socio-economic background to racial origins to colour and to gender. We are here today not to patronise the discourse on undoing gender. I think we are here today to explore ourselves and dig out the deep rooted prejudices that we still have somewhere inside of us, instead of blanketing them nonchalantly.

A few notions that I have harboured inadvertently as a product of the times i have grown in include the idea of superiority. Of one human being over the other, which manifests itself through race, colour, caste in our country and gender. What surprises me is that this is not just limited to our society or country, but permeates through the very skin of our species. Despite having witnessed a series of cultural revolutions that have challenged, at various points in time, the long established norms dictating our social behaviour, I think we have yet to harmonize the beliefs we harbour as individuals for us to change collectively.

Superiority has been the focal point of classification of our society from times immemorial. Men are superior to other genders because they are anatomically stronger. And the thumb rule of evolution is survival of the fittest. Not wrong, the latter part. But what the former misses is that there is always some way or the other where a species is found wanting in. Superior anatomically does not by itself guarantee superiority or a complete social dominion. Which is what we have been assuming and living by. I am here to because I want to explore and do my part in dismantling this. Not because I am a feminist or I hate met, but because as an equal species, we have a right to live as equals.

Which brings me to another thought that I have long nurtured. One of entitlement or right. What entitlement does is limit the freedom to explore beyond that entitlement in a social setting. Does a superior species experience emotions? Of course, every one does. Is a superior species entitled to express his emotions? This is where it gets fuzzy. Our concepts of superiority have prevented us from really seeing through the mist of prejudices to what lies underneath. Some of us are entitled to certain things, which prevents us from exploring alternate identities that we want to align ourselves with.

Take theatre. Men played the role of women. Not because there was not a sense of superiority. But because it involved a lot of aspects that were deemed to be inappropriate for women. Bodily contact is the easiest example. Who would want someone else to touch his woman. But the society needed entertainment anyway. So we bent the norms of superiority, which altered our sense of entitlement at the same time. Today, we have a more liberated woman living amidst us. Which has devalued the sense of entertainment of yesteryears to the point of derision. It is not surprising therefore that people who want to go beyond the boundaries that their gender has built, are not considered a fit in today's society. 

I am here because I want to understand what has been defining this sense of superiority or entitlement. I am here because I want to deconstruct what it means to belong to a particular gender. We are here not just to nod in agreement because that would be what is expected, but make an attempt to argue and see our sensibilties around gender getting challenged and overturned. Deep down inside, we are products of our times. And I am here to learn what lies beyond our time.

Ladies and Gents, My name is Ankita Shah, and I am a co-founder of The Poetry Club Mumbai.

Somniloquy.

I have developed a habit
One that I might come to regret
Some day. Eerie.
Habits don't last long
This one wouldn't either
But it has. 270 days now.
I sleep late. That often ends
In groggy mornings at work
And fulfilling nights.
Not that way, stupid.

I am resolving a few knots
That have rankled
My conscience for some time
Not continually. But consistently.
More than 3,000 days
All this math, sometimes works
Moulds perspectives.
About time, I think.
To move beyond the math
Beyond fathomable.

I never could learn swimming
I am afraid of depths
As much as I am
Shallow. And heights.
I can't hold my breath
Literally. Figuratively,
I once did. 3,000 days ago.
Hoping I would survive
A lifetime of breathlessness.
Wasn't a habit. Did me in.
I gave up. In 2,730.
Swimming in 3.

There are two things
To this new habit of mine.

What I gain. Time. It waits.
Trust me. And restlessness.
Night brings that. Disquiet.
Solitude is ravaging
And canny. Like a Mongol horde.
Breezes past my conscious defence

What I lose. Lull. With it, the war
Between objects. And people.
In my subconscious.
Lotus. Ruins. Rains.
A face here. A phase there.
Creativity. For elsewhere,
It's a travesty. Things that I control.

When I am awake, I struggle
With the knots. Any amount of time
Apparently, is not enough
For them, knots. Nor for the naughts
That I have been drawing
Out of my hat for 3,000 days
And 3, in the pool
While swimming.

When I am not awake,
I effortlessly swim
Through them, knots.
A part of that is because
I manage to find someone
To help me in the process.
That someone always talks.

I miss conversations.

Rant. Typo. Rank.

I am sitting at my table
Repugnant. Putrid. Rank
Poetry.
I need to write about something
I feel, but not quite,
It is like being there and back again
Only a little lesser
Than what was there
Remains there.
Only a bit lesser 
Of what went there 
Comes back
This is a war of attrition.
I have gnawed away enough
At emotions to feel one
Or choose not to.
I am a veteran

My eyes are heady. 
Typo. Heavy. Leaden.
Banal.
I am good at what I write
I feel. But I need reinforcement
Only there is no one
Who reads. Or wants to.
I am an accidental writer
With an increasing burden
Of periodic revaluation
Upwards. IFRS.
Never liked them, 'murican bastards
My skills are not a fixed asset.
Anyway.
I am supranational. Interstellar.

I have a galaxy put up on the ceiling
Earth. Sun. Her.
Black Hole.
At the centre of my galaxy
That consumes every speck
Of matter. Or no matter.
I tried to sling past. Without conviction
Hoping to fail. To be drawn into
Nothingness. Unknown, rather
Unbeknownst. To myself.
And succeeded accidentally
Now I can't go back
I am a floater. Again.

I gulp a gill of alcohol.
Scotch. Single malt. No, blended
Fuck.
I am broke in more ways that I can count
And I chose whiskey.
I hate alcohol. Makes me wild.
Typo. Mild. Euphonious.
Adjectives
That people, no I, rob me of
Civilisation counts on alcohol
More that it deserves to be relied upon
By cowards. And strongmen, alike
I will let her decide for me
Like she let me decide
Our split

April

A drop of rain hurtles down my brow
Or sweat? 
I know not
I am drenched
It never rains in April
They say April is the cruellest month
I was born in April
They say I am cruel

I feel a sensation. Surprise,
Cruelty screams.
A tingling behind my ears.
It can't be sweat. Must be rain
That can't rein it its unruly drops
And crashes like a chandelier
Dimly lit, now dying
All over my body
It doesn't feel like anything
Of the past. Unpleasant. 
It is. At once historical. Pleasant.
It feels like nothing.
Imagine a crash
In vacuum. I can't.

Last spring - 
Well April is not spring
May be it is in England
But they still call it cruel - 
I built a house
And instated that chandelier
It wasn't necessary
April is bright. Sunny.
Dry. Wicked. Warm, already.
I would rather it were cold
As cold as I am now
I am shivering. I normally do.
When cold, yes. But
Mostly when nervous. With people
In spotlight.
Today, it is gray. Like snow.
Imagine snow.
In April. I can.
I am shivering. As anyone would.
Warmth? Snow? April.

It was a small villa. Concrete. 
And wood. And lot of glass
Transparent. The French windows. 
My heart? Not quite.
Brittle. The window panes
My heart? Leaden.
Cold. Like snow in April
Guests like warmth.
My April was chilly. Cold to the bones.
I don't like guests.
None visited my house.
Until one. Became permanent.
I realized. Mirrors,
And her eyes.
One and the same.

My home was in the woods.
Lonely. Dark. Deep.
I made promises. I wanted to keep.
So I built a keep inside,
Deep inside, my heart. 
My home.
It was warm. 
Like a spotlight. I become 
Nervous. Shivered
In the warmth. 
As much as would melt
The glass of my villa
So I locked it. The keep
And with it, my house
My home. My heart.

April reminds me of many things.
A scent of dust
Entangled in her hair
Clouding her eyes. And my judgement
I can't see through the smell
I am allergic to dust. That always shone
On her face. 
It was raining then.
And the unruly drops
Singed the dust from my face.
I could see clearer. My house.
Not her, though.
It rained. The cold reached my bones.
I wanted to run for my keep
Yes, the one deep inside
Myself. So deep. I ran.
I lost my way. In that labyrinth.
I am wandering.

I came out with the sun
And the snow. I had been inside
For more than eternity
It feels fresher. The dirt
Has all but vanished
And I can see through
As far as my eyes would let me
I can't see just her still. 
Just a face
In the snow.
I reach our for it, but it melts.
And with it, my villa
My house, my home
I hate snow. I start shivering
I am aware. Conscious. Nervous.
No one can see me. I shed a tear.
A warm drop of water. From my eyes
That are now transparent
Singes the snow.
I look inside myself. 
The sun helps.
I see the keep.

I hurtle down the tunnel. Yes the tunnel.
One that I dug up to the keep
To keep my promises safe
And memories. And her.
I can't see her. 
I remember the melting snow.
I reach out for the doors.
There seem to be none. 
But I can't feel
Obstruction. 
My palm goes right in.
And come back right out. Is it there?
I pick up the stone nearby. Feels heavy
Not as heavy as the lock. 
Sealed with promises, with more inside. Of more inside.
I am in a quandary. Over my promises
To not break promises. To always keep
But I can't remembers most. 
I can't see most. Inside the keep. Those.
I have to break the lock. With it, promises
Who says promises were ever kept
When in a keep, with a lock.
Of promises. I break some.

With them, the spell of cold.
Gushes forth the smell of dust
Wrapped in promises made. Yonder.
Long forgotten now. Rendered meaningless
Reaching for the sun. Slapping me down.
Like those rains in April. 
But blunt. Lethal.
I decide to move beyond the gray.
I get a chandelier for my keep
My villa, my house, my heart
And never to lock any
I want visitors. Ones that heal
The wounds of these rains
And scars of these promises
And myself. She tried. I didn't let her.
I let go. She melted. With the snow.

People like brightness
My chandelier gives them. When not silver
I have people. Visitors. Welcome guests.
And past. One that always makes its way
Into my villa, my house, my heart, my keep
When it snows. I resist the urge. 
Cold. Reaches my bones.
I don't bolt the door. It becomes cold.
People think I become cold.
They leave me. Alone.

This April, it was windy.
I left the door ajar. The winds ravaged
My villa. My chandelier. My self.