Nupur Chaturvedi

Treasures

What is that? 
Yes, under the foliage,
Turn it over,
Shake off the mud,
Dig, scrape..oh, that was a distinct clang!
Dig some more, I see the edge…is it a box?
It is, a big one. A chest.
Is it locked? 
Oh no, the latch comes off easy. 
Look inside, quick!
Wait, let me see.
A shroud covers it all
Embroidered with intricate patterns I have learnt over the years,
Each warp and weft carrying an experience, a memory.
My hand trembles as I lift it
A glint catches my eye,
A drop of tear that had escaped when I first felt heartbreak
The shape still intact 
The passage of time has hardened it, it no longer changes shape or falls unbidden.
To the left, a string of pearls
That I was wearing when I first felt like a woman.
Almost hidden underneath, a piece of cotton,
Stained red when it touched your wounded lips,
I had bitten it in a fit of rage. I don’t know who felt the deeper pain.
A pretty miniature framed in gilt,
He is looking at her, she at him, no, not him, the other him,
Paint colouring emotions they don’t feel,
But it’s faded.
Then a crumpled paper, crushed before being touched by ink
Unused, unfulfilled, unsung.
A musty odour breaks free,
Reminding of laughs lost, smiles cracked,
And then, beneath it all, at the base,
Brocade dreams. 
You can close the lid again,
A glimpse was enough
Some chests should just be aired once a year
And then forgotten.
Past can’t be present, nor future.

A Diwali Wish

A flame,
In it flickers my resolve
Swaying this way and that
Trying to stay resilient.

A sparkle,
Exuding brilliance but hiding
A dark core
An inside out black hole.

A shimmer,
Consistent yet fake,
A veneer of brightness
Over a burnished layer of sweat.

Will they come together to spread light?
Can they?
But then, you don’t give up hope till there is even a tiny glow,
Even that, given the right wind, will grow to a raging torch
Don’t accept the stillness, then, blow a gale,
I want a blazing Diwali this year!

Self-obsessed on a Saturday

Flipping through old albums,
I can’t seem to find
The face I thought was mine
I saw it every day
Reflected in your eyes
But lately I see a glaze in them
My face is blurred
The mirrors are broken again
So it has been a while
Since I last saw myself
I am trying to remember
But memory is leaving me
Through the tips of my fingers
So I find myself poring over
Old photographs
But not one reminds of me
Who is that girl
That gawky, bespectacled one
With her mouth open
Or that one laughing uncontrollably
Or that one looking around in constant wonderment
She looks familiar, but I don’t know her
Anyway, this is pointless
I feel someone has cut out my identity
From each picture.
If I don’t know who I was
And I don’t know who I am
I could be anyone in the future
Or no one.

Panic attack

One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten
One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten
It’s no use.
Breathe-in-breathe-out, breathe-in-breathe-out
It’s still there, bubbling and frothing.
Calm-down, this-too-shall-pass
All empty self-platitudes.
Nothing reins in this tempest,
No soothing balm, no brow-straightening relief
Can ease the raging angst
From stomping over wind-blown glades
Or from unleashing a flood of bile
That burns your gut as it rises higher.
I feel the thunderous roar closer, I am scared
Will I stand again after this one?
Will I rise again to the same height
Or does it shed an inch off me
With every monstrous campaign?
It has passed, at last
And the doves are white again
Maybe it’s not so bad
Maybe I will conquer it some day.

On shaky ground

Chip by chip, piece by piece an edifice crumbles
On the top floor, you think you are safe,
You think nothing can touch you so far above the ground
Never mind that giddy joy has a paranoid evil twin
Never mind that oxygen thins with every step you rise.

You feel the rumble beneath your feet
You think the earth is moving
You think you are moving the earth
All the time, the cracks climb up like spiders.

Then panic sets in and your legs tremble
Even though you know there is time
To escape from the emergency exit
But you freeze, you don’t take that route.

And then you remember:
The edifice, it has a bold foundation
The edifice, it will rise again
Until then, you must brace for the destruction of status quo.

Dreams

Infantile dreams, divorced from logic,
Create pink water to sprinkle over magic dust,
Which turns serpents into gods,
And they play merry games
Making people turn their heads unnaturally.
Who poured these dreams into the receptacle of my brain?
Is this the effect of a hallucinogenic drug
Or the schizophrenic meanderings of a tired mind?
Maybe such fantastic conjurations are reasonable,
Maybe we are meant to imagine that which is so implausible
So that we can slowly inch away from reality
And create a better world
Won’t it help you sleep better at night
If you know that when you wake up,
The altered surroundings are whiter, cleaner?
I am soporose now, bring me my pillow.

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.

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?

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.