Nupur Chaturvedi

Canvas

Images spattered on my mind,
Like mud splashed from a puddle,
On a colourful Pollockian canvas.
Images that tell a story,
Sometimes sullied by pain.
Images that hold within,
A life lived with love.
Do you see them, these images?
Or is your eye only focused on
The banality of the obvious?
Because if that is so,
How do we create our work of art?
Even monochrome dreams will do
As long as they show up the contrast
Between our lives and theirs.
But multi-coloured ones are better
So that they throw up a bouquet
Of unbidden emotions
That create a masterpiece we can sell
To the world, and live
Off the bounty on our Paradise Island resort.

More of the same

Creatures of habit we are
By nature tethered to our patterns
When was the last time we broke
The sameness of our thought
Of our desires
Our hopes.
It’s all one big same.
And yet,
We go forth on adventures
Challenging boundaries
Foolishly braving rollercoasters
Hoping against hope
That the train breaks out from the tracks
To chart its own course.
Oh, who are we kidding?
The fault is in the design
We are pre-programmed with flaws
Pre-programmed to sameness
Makes us easier to control.
Imagine, if controlled we wreak such havoc,
What would happen if we broke free?

Rejection

Rejection is a powerful muse.
It forces you to look in the mirror,
But before that, it makes you embroider
Complicated illusions on a veil
That filter the image and make it seem
Diffused, multi-hued, surreal, anything but real,
And then, out come pretty phrases,
Masking the truth, clouding the mind
Spraying mists of scented lies,
That you inhale.
And then, when you look in the mirror again,
Through the mist, the cloud, the veil,
What you see is an untruth so mesmerising,
You beg for rejection again, and again,
In hope of becoming an artist.

Paint

Explain to me why you would
Paint daisies black
Is that your state of mind
Or a reflection of an environment
Sullied by soot-laden adventures
Or does this portend events
Out of our control?
Was this an act of your own volition
Or did someone twist your arm
Into subjugation, forcing you to
Abandon your perceptions
And follow his (or hers)?
Is this bleak debauched print
Real or imagined
Or is it different for everyone?
I guess the question I am scared of asking is this:
This work of art—is it a manifestation of your mind or mine?

I don’t want to be brave

To breathe
To walk in the sun
To soak the soothing rays of the moon
To place my hand in another’s and gaze into his eyes
To wear my favourite fineries and dance on a table
To laugh unabashedly at a joke I read as I go home in the metro
To stop my car on the side so I can help an old man cross the road
To watch a movie on a Sunday night with my boyfriend and go back home
I need to brave.
I need to be brave?
To live the life I want?
To dance in abandon?
To be consumed by joy?
To be in love?
To have a soul unstained by cynicism?
To be?

Fallen star

Who is to blame for a fallen star
Is shining an aspiration with conditions?
Shine, but your sheen must be pure
Shine, but then you can never hide
Shine, and the spotlight is on your flaws as on your wins
Should you even try to shine?
Can you choose how much you shine?

As you rise, you lose dimensions
You are not you, but what you achieve
Larger than life, higher than others
A hero, a leader, a saviour
But not a living, breathing person
With warps and moles and emotional warts

And then when you discover these flaws
When you realise this was just a reflection, an illusion
In your head a human face to your aspirations and dreams
You pull them down for not being true to this illusion.
So then, who is to blame for a fallen star?

Complications

The manufactured half-truths of a tired mind
Take on unpolished, unfinished contortions
Rendering simple thoughts complicated
Leaving the poor, tired mind confused.

Why do we do it
This exercise in futile industry?
Deliberate efforts to crowd our thoughts
With intricate fabrications
And then exhausted when we get tangled
In yarns we spin for ourselves.

Does everyone do it
This acrobatic engineering
Or is it the cultivated skill of a few?
I, for one, long for rolling meadows and sunshine daisies,
Lying for hours contemplating nothing
And then, going home to evening tea.

Happy Birthday!

You are not around,
But it’s been 75 years
Since you came to the world
And we celebrate
Your life
Your dreams
Your successes
Your joys
Your love for us
Your faith
Your smile
Your laugh
Your pride in us
Your memories…
You are not around
Or are you?
Happy 75^th, Papa
Hope your party is on somewhere…

Unrequited

Is it really the rain that does it,
This precipitation and slush inside?
Will it not go away, then, in winter?
But then some might call it the blues
To match the cyan-grey hues
Of the bleak, foggy morning.
In spring, will it go away,
Or stay on like weeds sprouting unbidden?
And then in the sweltering summer
It will burn like the blazing sun.

No.

No matter what the season
The weather is not the reason
I feel this unease.
It is an unsolved puzzle
My mind can’t let go of.
A song whose melody I have forgotten mid-note
Niggling at me.

It is not a pain
Just the dull ache of unrequited dreams.
It is me waiting for my future to happen.

Life

Another day goes by,
As a memory fades
Another is created
These overlapping thoughts
Like relay runners
Give a head-start to emotions
Stretching them out to last a marathon
Keep the pace slow, a gentle jog
The intense sprints will drain you out
There will be hurdles too, of course
When you will need to take a leap of faith
There are no other runners, though, only you
Racing against your better judgment sometimes
And other times, against circumstances
The trick is to keep the race on
Not think of the finish line
Let one moment lead to another
One day lead to another
One memory lead to another
They call this Life.

[Will miss you, Jhaldiyal uncle]