Nupur Chaturvedi

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.

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?

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]

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.

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…

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.

Futile

I often try to hold a tide in my hands.
The futility of it is lost on me.
Controlling the outcome of forces
Larger than me, beyond me,
Trying to mould the unmouldable
Streamline the free flowing—
Who can do that?
And yet, I try, again and again
And build myself up for a deluge
Of countless needles pricking every inch
Of my severely scabby skin.
Why do I do it? Why don’t I stop?
Because old Bhagirath brought Ganga down from the heavens.
We are foolish, but without us,
The world would be a barren, impotent, wasteland.

War

If this were war,
I would be snaking over rough earth,
My weapon in hand, elbows propelling me forward.
And when I would spot the enemy,
My crawl would turn to crouch,
And at the right time, I would get my shot.
But I wouldn’t be unscathed, no.
My shoulders are tender,
The rebound would dislocate them,
And I would wonder, who won,
The one who died,
Or the one who lives
With lifetime of pain in front of her.

This is not a war, though.
This is just everyday life,
Mundane, routine, dull.
There is no crawling nor crouching,
Nor the coarse surface scraping my stomach.

My adversaries are within me.
My weapon pointed inwards,
I still take aim.
And realise…

No one wins
No one can win.
We are in this endless shadow dance
A deceitful play of reflections,
And unless we find the light source,
Our aims are false, our enemy an illusion.
And my dislocated shoulder, a constant reminder
That pain is the only outcome of war.

Moment

In the end, my friend,
We will stand holding hands,
Gleeful twinkles and all,
Holding down hysteria,
Lest it burst out like frozen cola fizz,
Never to be reined in again.

In the end, my friend,
We would still be fooling ourselves,
Whispering fairy tales to each other
That will never come true
Holding out for that movie-like ending
Hoping life freezes at credit roll
And our perfect moment remains.

In the end, my friend,
We still won’t care
Happy to live a life of denial before and after
Because we managed to snatch something
That we never thought was ours
A pleasure so far vicarious.
In the end, my friend,
A moment is all we have
A moment is infinite.
The end.

The choice

It seems to me I have a choice,
Get overwhelmed by the tide
Or stand tall and channelize the flow
To parts parched so that they drink
The elixir of life and sprout
Designs
Songs
Stories
Embroidered dreams
Or what have you.
It seems to me the choice is clear
Just give me a second to stand up.