life

Blank Canvas

A plain canvas – naïve and blank
Open to the brutal assault of colours and textures, yet to come
Longing to be drenched – in your dreams and nightmares.

Undented and painfully happy,
Waiting to answer the call of your whims.
Smiling through my bruises, I was
as you lashed out with your violets and reds.

Scrapes and tears began to show,
on my calm façade –
I began soaking in your fantasies and fears,
your gashes– crude blacks and angry yellows.

As you gloated over your creation and basked in its glory,
Wild thoughts dragged crazily all over me
– shades of blue, deeper possible?

A canvas in my right no more,
me – a distraught reflection of your anger and smallness
A jumbled mess of colours and patterns,
Oh! There was no undoing this mess now.

As my tears rained through your creation
your anger came at me – pokes and angry strokes.
Pouring brighter hues of reds and oranges
To keep my wounds from showing.

You eyed the pot of an impassioned mix, to cover the last white spot
And I took one last breath in –
wondering if the creation of your masterpiece,
always meant the end of my existence.

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Shadow

I am, but a shadow of what I was.

My body still flaunting exaggerated curves;
Full breasts – expectant of something that, now, will not happen.
Dull aches and pains in my joints and hips;
painfully reminiscent of the inkling of life inside me – gone by.

Veins in my arms, with fading blue knots on them
reminding me of the innumerable pokes I dared.
Toe nails with no paint on them
bringing back memories of the day I decided.

The lump in my throat
the void in my gut – all too real to ignore,
the perfect absence you left.

Things will change – they say
A spot of sunshine, a rainbow, a song;
Good food, happy evening with friends and time.
We know how hard it is – they say.

I wish they knew.

Without you, I am but a shadow of what I was.

Artist

The first time I took  notice of him was when he asked me if he could draw my eyes. He was my co-passenger. For the next week, he found a seat opposite me in the bus that weaved through the streets between my workplace and home and sketched away, while I read my book. He was an artist who was taking classes in a nearby college, and I was just another subject. I loved the way his hands worked magic on the paper. When he was done, the  eyes on his paper looked like mine – but spoke a different language and told different stories. My co-passenger was an artist, alright.

Yesterday, as my train pulled into London Victoria, I caught a reflection of my tired eyes in the window and was reminded of him.

I guess, the stories my eyes told, on his paper all those years ago, were mine after all.

Dreams…and failures

The only thing I have really felt jealous of – girls who can sing.

I am supposed to have a good voice and know that I can sing well. But my voice refuses to behave when I stand up in front of a crowd. I remember standing proudly in front of crowd long long ago and being horrified when I could not hold the tune or my breath, for that matter.

It has been my biggest failure.

It has been decades since the incident and the humiliation never left me. I have never again been able to be the subject of praises for my lovely voice or my soulful singing.

It is heart-wrenching to see girls who have the courage to stand up and sing like they don’t have a care in the world.

For now, in my newer social circles, I am the only one who knows that I can sing.

Do you know how hard it is to gather the courage, pick up yourself, time and again – only to be disappointed again?

Do you know how hard it is, when you have no one to blame but yourself?

Calm

Grey day in London today.

A smile on my lips as I think about the gorgeous days when I used to take a bus after work from my office in Irvine, California to the Laguna Beach – just to see the sunset!

I would buy my hot chocolate, walk along the beach and perch myself up on the best seat to watch the show – atleast 3 nights a week. I carried a book and my IPod with me initially – but found them distracting and not half as interesting as the live show that would open curtains, day after day without fail – with or without audience.

People would go about their lives – walking dogs, texting away on the phone, jogging/biking vigorously and I would watch.

The calm that came with being the spectator, the passenger and not the driver was unparalleled. For the few hours that I spent there each day, I did not have to make decisions or take responsibility for anything. And that got me ready for everything.

I would sit there and watch – two hours of my life go by.

Now as I run around with no stops in London, I wonder if those few hours that I took out of my life then, is what gives me the energy now.

On those days when you don’t seem to get a break from the noise around you, imagine yourself in the best seats of an open theatre, watching the best show on earth.

Blue skies, bluer water – Calm all around.

Now breathe.