Double Decker Bus
'Pure nonsense, pure wisdom of someone who knows nothing.'
Nineteen. Happily on my way to being a cat woman with never musty books and pancakes for breakfast. Everyday, really.
‘You need to be away too much.’
If I could, I would press and hold your hands until the warmth would morph and melt our fingerprints into an identical anomaly for security checkpoints and official papers. I would look at you for so long that yellow walls would be a surface for an optical illusion of you, and the illusion wouldn’t be enough.
Anonymous asked: If you decide to go down the rabbit hole, would you take me with you?
As long as I can have all of the Eat Me cake, I’d be glad to.
Can you see the rain?
I want to collapse on you like a raindrop on unstepped soil,
motes of dust (not sparkling) in hopeful rainbow light.
Lon(v)ely poets will call us their favourite smell,
and I’ll waft and seep through your grainy wholeness, enrich your colour and wrap myself tight around your earth, learn and remember the taste of your dryness and how you look in the dark.
Drifting vapour, I want to condense again, even though it hurts to fall.
Steady there, let me fight the wind for you, steady steady.
Wait for the rain.
Anonymous asked: Who/What inspired your last piece?
I was going to write about conjoined twins, and for some reason, I thought of a horseshoe being nailed to the hooves of a horse. It just came from there - it wasn’t very inspired, though.
The other day, you called me a horseshoe.
It was a well-thought out setup, when I turned to see you sitting on the sofa, watching a documentary about a farrier. “Do you know you can’t really tell when they’re in pain? Horses, they don’t neigh or groan or fidget or, well, you know.”
I nodded, and set down the coffee. That evening, we spoke of Penguin book covers, the difference between shrews and mice, Alfred Noyes, and our favourite Sufi poets.
Quietly, we were mourning our equestrian paced countdown,
and we knew,
we knew.
My grandmother talks to herself. I would never have known of you, if being the gleefully invisibile eavesdropper to her ranting had not been one of my favourite preoccupations twelve years ago.
I remember we lived in the city of a perpetually hot summer back then. It is an odd neighbourhood in my five year old memory, populated with an old painter who lived in a house across the terrace, a gangly boy who had a stepmother (something that made the mole on her face evil), a girl who could climb down the staircase on roller-skates. All these things I remember: the dog with one ear who never went hungry, the heroic boy who cycled whirling dust the evenings, the ice-cream store across the road my toddler-outgrown feet could still not cross.
As hard as I might try, as tightly as I clench my eyes shut, no picture of hospital trips with my mother leap across this well-mapped landscape of my childhood - no hints of vitamin supplement bottles, baggy sweaters, hot chicken soup. All traces of your seven months are cleanly repressed, sister. I want to bring back a glimpse of the first knee-jerk reaction to your soft kicking in my mother’s womb, because I heard you were always restless. You made her eat cucumber, chili and chocolate - a foetal sense of alliteration.
If I cannot picture any of this then, I shall sketch you into my atlas and make your childhood last as long as mine. Because I already know your ending, I shall fake pretend to grudge you possession of my Boogey Bear and Rapunzel doll. We shall work on teaching you the ABCs as soon as we can, so that we can read out ‘Mirror mirror, who’s the fairest of them all?’ together. I think you have a beautiful voice, come waltzing into my macabre imagination and hear how our voices sound together, (a duet to whatever music you like best). The old whiteboard would have permanent marker remains of our grammar lessons; for once, I would be good with numbers. Such fun it would be to rote learn the multiplication tables together - “nine nine zaaa eighty one!”
If I have to pick how we are different, it’s in the way your nose is slightly crooked like mamma’s, and how you never fell in love with Harry Potter. A voice like yours is in my head right now; it whispers how you never liked all the animals on the road that much either, but I choose this moment to be the elder sister with more important things on her mind.
Memories of you crowd around - suddenly, the old painter and the girl on the rollerskates fade away. It’s you and me and mamma, dancing to Rasputin and Sexy Eyes in the room with all the cardboard boxes. One hot evening, we grumbled together through the sweat and no electricity, and baba emptied a bottle of water on each of us, laughing. They were those plastic bottles, the one litre ones for pepsi. And yes, thankfully, you never thought much of orange flavoured fizzy drinks either.
How do I bring your years to double digits, sister? How do I pick you a name to shape your childhood with? I shall write you all my best stories, give you all my best memories. Take my favourite fairytales, and those nights nana read me Shakespeare. You can name our first cat, she was grey and tiny when we rescued her from the garage and I loved her to death, but I shall let her sleep in the crook of your arms instead, as long as we can share the blanket. I shall let you ride shotgun in the blue Maruti and you can be the one who stands in front of baba on the scooter when we go to buy grocery, so much fun it will be to share cornettos on our way back. I would never shoot you an ‘annoying little sister’ expression; we could be the oddball pair, the ones who are evil to Cinderella and then never find true love and grow old together.
Will this keep you here? Wouldn’t you rather live in changing addresses and overrated teenage, than in mamma’s quiet tears every year on a beautiful day in September? Our father never speaks of you, but I know he had thought of a beautiful name for you - he knew you would be a girl. Nana was excited to induct you into our exclusive duo of mammal and letter loving; the copy of The Crossbreed he kept for you is exactly the same edition as he bought me, it’s wrapped in paper which still shines.
I cannot ask you why you left, sister, when you never came at all. It is not a pretty world sometimes, but we all find our own medicines. You would have too. You would have been strong, and I would have loved you as fiercely as I love you now. I will swap these words and the entertaining company of my mind for you. Take my double digits; like your favourite fairytale, I will take my turn to bite into the apple if you promise to take me up on this exchange.My enchanted slumber will be peaceful; as you can see, I inevitably build castles in the air.
Like our grandmother, I talk to myself sometimes too, and just like I was the impish eavesdropper to her words, I know you are of mine.
Tell me your name, because I cannot say sister one more time and then open my eyes to not ever having you (t)here.
(Source: startwiththealphabet)
The gypsy skirt,
a little too long for you, gathered together on staircases in a tight fist.
I passed you by as you caught the train,
tucked yourself into your shoulders and tried not to brush against the crowd.
You sleep like a foetus, I can tell, but you wore primary colours and flowed through the clean crusty lines of the platform,
I lingered around to see if you’d look back to note who was following the traipsing tramped trails of your garb,
you know, whether it was all a well charted ploy.
I can diagram all the elements of your story;
your title, shadowed in a curvy font, the drop-cap first letter of your beginning, the flippant absence of any footers or chapter breaks.
You run barefoot, all the conflict in your subtext, tears smudged against the bulky glass panes of the window.
I have read between your lines.
(Source: startwiththealphabet)
I was sitting and staring at my brown slippers. The glow of the heater warmed me on one side, and my hair drew streaks across everything I saw, clumped together, falling over my face.
That’s when I began thinking of losing you. This isn’t the first time I am writing of loss and best friends and bits of my heart and people going away. It’s just that, with you, the deep sad sorrow I chose to immerse myself in and all the parallel universes I conjure for these words, for my sanity, it came true. And we are sad about that, which is good, isn’t it, because deep sad sorrow is the appropriate emotion for situations like this?
My point though, in writing this to you, and these words come after I sat nibbling my fingers for a moment, is that loss isn’t romantic. As much as I vindictively wish that our painful parting of ways provided fiery fodder to the flaccid fuels (fools) of my imagination, there is no such thing happening – and we can see that here, can’t we? I can employ no wordplay and I shall join you in laughing at all the obvious attempts at making this seem literary.
I am always hiding, and my words are no miraculous insight into my truth. They are the closest I shall come to surface, and that’s the best I can do. You know that, don’t you? You loved my lies, and my fiction loved you back.
Loss hasn’t matured me. It has not suffered me, and it has left me precisely where it found me (that was a reference to a quote you loved from Chicken Soup for the Soul, it was the only book you ever read in the library). I don’t think either of us value or miss each other more than we ever did, so really, what is loss if it isn’t pillow tears, sad poetry and nearly dialing a number? My inventive what-ifs are so much more realistic than this pathetic reality.
Because this then, is what loss is. It is awkward words and a verbose mind running astray, too much thought and too much reflection. It’s waking up one day and realizing he doesn’t matter anymore (he is so ridiculous anyway), you could kiss him and hold him and marry him and have three children with him; we are all selfish people, and there is nothing we crave more than everything which makes us happy, and if we have to pick between two, you pick whichever one you can keep around more often, and his address was nearer. How can I blame you (except when I did)?
Loss is when you can thrive happily without everything which made your days and who you’ve had breakfast with for years. It’s when I realize it’s just one story less, and really, these things don’t matter that much. People come, people go. I shall too.
This is me, taking a deep breath, and breaking out to the surface. Just for a moment, just long enough to say you can love him and love me too.
Lie, n.
My key-ring is a sterling silver bear, a tiny clock dial his stomach,
It’s an odd Weasley world of locks and tick tocks,
a fascinating timer to going away and coming back.
It’s an interesting fact, like the ones they compile in colourful middle school books,
comic sans in jagged edged yellow boxes,
exclamation mark ended did you know my favourite cup is mud red saying cats love milk,
or how fluorescent shades make me twisty mountain drive queasy.
You’ve left this thick paperback book, earmarked and cunningly dog-eared on its spine,
I can glance around this room and win the invisible treasure hunt of all your bullet lists;
the pillow covers will always be a shade of blue,
the secret safe for cheque books and passports is the worn squash racquet case on the doornail.
Let’s play this serendipity game of truth and dare,
tell me my favourite font, or whether I like chandeliers.
There are mounds of glittering pirate loot in your mind,
if you could tell me now, please,
bears and pillow covers are decisive,
and I need to know if this is a lie.
(Source: startwiththealphabet)
“Rambling whims take over my words when I write of you. I love how that sounds, this two letter preposition, my writing, the writing of you, both our claims over these letters duly credited.”
The awkward moment when you dig into old documents to find something to post on your blog. Sourced right there.
(Source: startwiththealphabet)
