Yeah, Me !!!

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Monday, 14 November 2016

Vulnerable

It’s the tightness of the neck which tells me that something is wrong within. I pay attention to other signs. The heartbeat. As expected, it’s fast and loud. So loud that I fear others might hear it. Something strange tugs in the centre of my chest. Like fear beginning to grow strong.  My stomach is in knots. 

But what is the reason? I haven’t had any unpleasant incident today. What is it that is making me choke? I recall the day. One by one, I rewind the incidents, running my fingers over them, touching each one, pressing a bit, seeing if it pains somewhere, tasting the words others had spoken to me, trying to know if any of them tasted bitter or sour, tried smelling the incidents looking for the smell of foul intentions. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I could sense I was missing out on something by the way the thudding in my chest had become louder by now.

Words. It had to be words. I could sense it. I was hit by them. Always am. There is nothing that can affect me the way words can. Deep or shallow, curt or polite, warm or hurtful. It had to be words. They were my panacea. And they were my venom too.

I played the tape of events in my head again. Carefully going through each one them. And just as I had guessed. There they were. My own words. I tasted them in my mouth again. Ran my tongue over each one of them. Tried to flip it around. And they left an ashen taste in my mouth.  

Not because I had spoken something about anyone else. But they were about me. I had revealed something about myself to friends. The kinds you spend your time with by laughing on idiotic jokes and criticizing the people all of you collectively dislike. The conversation innocuously steered towards my insomnia. The way I deal with it. The way I could deal with it better by not spending my time reading. They asked questions. And I had to answer. I couldn’t steer the conversation towards somebody else. So there they were. Discussing me. In front of me.

While I was talking, there was a trigger inside which was asking me to do the damage control, to stop the conversation but I ignored it and now I am regretting. Nothing has happened yet due to my sharing something about myself and yet everything is so different. I feel raw, exposed. I feel vulnerable, weak. Like I am giving the power to other people to destroy me, even though the information might me trivial in their eyes. But to me, to me it’s like handing over a piece of myself and then giving them the power to trigger something that I cannot stop. Somehow, people make me feel vulnerable these days.

On the other hand, there are times when I write about myself and my life. On the blog and on social media. So one could say I am as such revealing myself. I agree I am. But that is the measured part, the harmless part. I am aware of every single word I put out there about myself. The vulnerability creeps in when I am questioned, discussed and probed. What if I say something that will let them know what I think, how I think, what I am going through? That’s the scarier part.     


Does it happen to you? Do you ever feel vulnerable when you share things?    

Sunday, 9 October 2016

I smell of..


I smell of longing and sweet nothings
Of passion in eyes 
Merging with those browns

I smell of a divided time
That I counted with my heartbeats
And a black watch

I smell of unsaid words
And written diary notes
After which I fidgeted a lot

I smell of fragility, beauty and everything I cannot undo
Then I remembered
That I smell of you.



Saturday, 10 September 2016

Friday Fictioneers - The Sewing Machine

Samar dreaded whenever Sandra would begin dusting the house. She would come to clean his study room which would trigger another argument about giving away this rusted sewing machine. He couldn’t make Sandra understand that it was precious. It was this machine on which his mother had sewn garments all her life to bring him up after his father left. Whatever Samar was today, he owed it to this machine and his mother’s deft hands on it. But for Sandra it was a blot on pricey interior decoration. He sighed and prepared for another exhausting discussion with his wife.




Written for the photo prompt for this week's Friday Fictioneers

Sunday, 28 August 2016

Terrible to be me

It has rained since morning. Or probably since last night. I woke up to a hazy Sunday afternoon. Distilled and quiet. The balcony is inviting. Shades of green around. My morning (afternoon?) cuppa beside me. I sit with a book, losing my sense of time. Glancing up occasionally at the beauty that only the combination of rain and silence can bring. The contradiction and yet the truth of this.

I choke almost. At something rising within my chest. A longing. A memory so fierce. For someone. Someone familiar? Maybe. Maybe not. Of wrapped arms and intertwined fingers. Of disillusioned realities and opaque dreams.
A longing that could pin you down for hours, or is it days? Who knows. I have already lost my sense of time, remember? Smoked out my rationality. The kind that brings a twinkle in your eyes so bright it could make the stars looks bland. All you hear is silence and your heartbeats. So loud that you fear he can hear them from where he is. Far far away from you. In every sense of the word.
And then maybe he would know what it is like to be me. But let me tell you darling. It is terrible, terrible to be me.


Monday, 15 August 2016

Cigarette Memories






Night sky burning with my vulnerabilities
I see my being rising up in flares
Slow at first
And then it sets ablaze
As I inhale 
Your words that meant a lot
And my naivety as an afterthought

The smoke of our moments inside my mouth
I clench them together
Till my eyes begin to sting
And mist begins to form in their crevice
As I try, I try
To imprison the hazy memories inside my lungs
They smolder me incapable
To breathe, to exist

A bond that ‘once’ was
Begins to seethe
And I choke on my gullibility
And your latent abilities

While I finally release you from me
Trailing behind is the ashen taste
Of bluntness that could nip associations

A bond that was envy of the town
Which now
Has slowly died a slow death

How I wish
Terminal worries too could be exhaled in thin air
Right there one moment
Becoming invisible the next one

A bond that was an intoxication
Left behind a bitter aftertaste
That scuffled with other senses
Blinding, effacing, burning
A ‘me’ a ‘you’ and maybe an ‘us’ too!
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