And it begins again
That feeling of disquiet
Of unanswered questions
Of questions unasked
That feeling of emotions on edge
Of grating realisations
Of unrealised ambitions
That feeling of unknown fears
Of unmasked vulnerabilities
Of unbidden hallucinations
This cyclical pattern of unease
Needs a serrated effort
To break
I’ll try.
Meanwhile I grew up
Even as you thought that I never would
I found a spine, started speaking my mind
Letting everyone know
They couldn’t control me
And then I waited
Waited for you to know it too
Only, you were far away
Oblivious of my struggles or my triumphs
We weren’t even connected telepathically
I couldn’t sense you, so I’m sure
Nor could you me
It did seem pointless for a while
Till I realized
I grew up for me, not you.
Two-foot-nothing
He was crossing
The road with his mother
When he stopped my car by just
Holding out his hand
I braked and smiled
He smiled back
This triumphant little imp
And taught me
It’s all possible if you believe in you.
[Based on a true incident this evening]
Shy and reserved
Shy and reserved
What do you hide
In your closed mind?
Alone and ashamed
Alone and ashamed
Did we fail you
In every way?
Insane and enraged
Insane and enraged
Did you really see
No other route to take?
Avenged and seized
Avenged and seized
Have you achieved
What you set out to do?
Why?
[Reaction to TV reports of Colorado shooting, with the shooter described by former friend as shy and reserved. Also a reaction to increasingly violent outburst of shy and reserved, often isolated individuals.]
Shards of broken shells,
Like glass pierce my skin
And stay there as reminders
Of a time spent by the waves
The thrilling breakers tugging at my guts
Making me take risks I otherwise wouldn’t
Leaping to dodge a wave
Getting thrown about when I can’t
I come up sputtering, gasping and laughing
And then look at you sitting by the rocks
Keeping a watch.
You often said ‘learn to swim’
I tried, half-hearted, scared, lazy, gave up
That day, you were laughing
‘The waves are more powerful than you
You should have learnt to harness them’
But the kick of being tossed around by the waves
Kept me going, though that was not all.
You were bruised, but I knew
You knew how to harness the waves
You wouldn’t let me drown.
We collected shells later and brought them home.
Today, I crushed one.
I suppose that’s how it goes
With each passing year
They will be crushed one by one
Till there are no more.
Today they hurt, tomorrow they won’t.
And then it would be time to pick more shells.
But I still can’t swim.
The season of unease
Creeps up unnoticed
The mind creates mirages
Seeking solace in illusions
And truth is hidden
Beneath layers of disquiet
Shall I peel them off?
Or shall I let rose-tinted glasses
Render the blues pink?
That which is revealed
May be sordid but true.
But is truth everything?
When life itself is a myth
Why hold truth supreme?
The season of disquiet
Of still curtains awaiting storms
Is upon me.
I choose to close windows for now.
A favourite game we play on the beach
Etching our names in sand
With fingers then twigs, larger and larger
Till they become
Giant imprints of our miniature lives
You write your name, I write mine,
Then I write your name, you write mine
And then we clap our hands with glee
As a wave comes and wipes them away
So fickle is our attachment to our identity
Then we start a new game – building sand castles
Each turret, each arch, painfully carved in great detail
You become the king and plant a flag,
I refuse to be queen consort, I want my own flag up
Take out your sword, you say, and let’s wage a war
We fight for a while and then burst into giggles
As we watch a giant breaker demolish our prize
All day long, we play games,
Some learned, others imagined
Then we wash ourselves in brine and go back home, hand in hand
Simple, peaceful lives,
Manicured lawns and children,
Comfortable routines, mundane urban angsts,
Cliched suburban bliss.
Not far from here,
Neighbourhoods devastated,
Shrapnel the only jewellery,
Adorning scared teens’ tenuous necks.
Who decides where you are born?
[Question at the end inspired by Pakistani film, Bol. Go watch it.]
India’s baby you were, they say,
Bitten, battered, bruised.
You fought like every India’s baby, they say,
Courageous, consistent, calm.
In a happy place you are, I hope,
In a cradle of down you deserve,
Tubes and pricks are forgotten, I hope
In maternal arms of Love and Joy.
They fought with you, the good doctors,
But did anyone cry for you?
And if you would have lived on,
Was there a life to live for you?
Bye, bye, baby, rest in peace,
The big, bad wolves have gone away,
To scare another India’s child.
Who will it be this time on?
Or is another hope somewhere already gone?
How many India’s babies will die every day,
Who brought them to life?
If killing is a crime in this world,
Should burdened birth be too?
Is dreaming wrong? Or pointless?
Must we only chase goals we can achieve?
Should we shroud ourselves in comfortable existence
Snatch the so-called low-hanging fruits
And thereby get ahead in arithmetic progression?
Or should we challenge the flowing tide,
Strive to swim against it,
Beat our chest and proclaim a battle
Against status quo?
And here’s another angle:
Are those who are great
Born with knowledge of their larger purpose
Or is their greatness an accident?
At several points in life, you question yourself,
‘Am I the best that I can be?’
And every time so far,
I haven’t heard a yes or no,
So how do I know?
Nupur Chaturvedi 
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