Eyes

You woke up at the crack of dawn;
And found me right where you'd left me.
An inch away; your mouth, to mine
Exhaled, and moved away quickly.
Your eyes that I'd watched drift off to sleep
Now flutter, breaking the only contact
With mine, undeterred, unmoving
Your beautiful hazels deserve no less than that.
You fumble with words, your patrons every other time,
Each syllable laced with a sleepy tone,
Every breath you take is deeper than the last.
Behold what my confession has borne.
Enticed by that luscious, spirited, breath,
I move in closer, and watch crimson come alive
My fingers, curious, explore the red
Find a warm softness unknown in time.
I move away strands of hair from your face,
And watch your eyes- now perplexed, so sublime.
Your lips part, and yet, no sound escapes
The sighs that follow, all captured by mine.
I pull you closer, as you shiver in my arms
Finally it happens, and your lips with mine rhyme.
In the soft light that fills your room,
A dark secret is born this time.

Surreptitious.

Brought out the worst in each other;
That which was hidden,
In the dark.

Like them.

The wetness of the earth,
Of the air,
And between them.
Desired. Abused.
What had they become?

They were surreptitious.
It started that way.
Still is.
Will always be.

The flashes of green
In the night sky blue
Yellow light,
Shivering, shimmering.

The cold air, and hard rains
The grass, the marble,
The stairs,
Loved, lost, forever.
Theirs were the longest conversations,
With no words,
Just predicaments,
And glances.

Never ending heat,
Ever lasting want.
Darkness has taken over
At the end, do they start?

Secrets.

Under the dark, blue sky,
Under the dim lit stars
That twinkled away,
Far away.
I met you, I felt you,
I found you, I knew you.
I shared my soul,
And the darkness of my heart.
Slowly, you became the darkest part

But when did that start?
The dew never settled.
The scars of the thorns
Never left my feet.
Sometimes when the wind blows,
I can hear you breathe.
You found me, you held me.
Never knew me, did you?
Left me out, in the rain,
To climb down, alone.
It wasn't the nicotine
That I got high on,
That I craved.
Of which I was a slave.
You, in turn, of her, her love.
Still are, I can see.
Only the smoke remains.
And a lonesome me.

The Chair of Shame.

I spent the last 11 years outside of my hometown. So, the one time that I do decide to visit, Aunty Flow decides to accompany me. Well, no thank you. Oh, but I don't have a choice, do I? Over the years I have come to not loathe my periods. Well, as much as one can, anyway. But as soon as my flight landed at the airport, a reminiscent dread started creeping over my body. I started panicking. Emotions aren't my best friends during my 'time of the month'. Or anytime, really. But that's a different issue.

I couldn't recall the gazillion rules that I was supposed to abide by while I was on my period in that house.  Not walk in front of the tiny temple we have at home. Not touch anything in the kitchen. And, what? With every stair I climbed, another rule would pop up in my head. Don't touch the water container. Don't touch the jars and jars of namkeen set on the table for everyone to eat whenever they please. Except a bleeding, extra-hungry me. That's when I saw the chair. The red, plastic chair, silently sitting on the side of the comfortable sofas in the sitting room. Silently judging me, punishing me, for being a woman. 

In this house, when Aunty Flow visits you, you aren't allowed to sit on the sofas. Or the normal soft dining room chairs. There is a special chair in the house for you to sit on - the chair of shame. Shame, that you are bleeding. Shame, that you are a woman. Shame, Shame, Shame. The scene from Game of Thrones started playing in my head. I looked at my mother, and made a face. She made a face, and signaled '1' with her hand. I sighed. And took a seat. On the cold, plastic chair. Was it red on purpose? I'd never gotten an answer to that question. Once we moved to the other city, I never bothered. There was no red chair there.

The crazy lady is waving a bell behind me, chanting. Shame. 

This is my grandmother's kitchen. I can smell the gulab jamun and the gajjar ka halwa enticing me into the kitchen, when I go to get a water bottle filled for myself. The halwa is burning a little. Out of habit, I raise my hand to stir the pot, and stop. 'You can't touch this'. 

Can't touch this. Na-nanana-nana-nana. Can't touch this. Oh-Oh Oh Oh-Oh-Oh. 

The song played in my head for the rest of the day. MC Hammer, you devil.

For some reason, after the 4th day of your periods, you aren't the subject of shame. You can just wash your hair, and seat your free(er) bottom on the comfy sofas, and eat the gulab jamuns you have served yourself. I never understood why. I had asked, when I was younger. Didn't understand the reasons then. Don't remember the answers now. Still can't go to the temple, though. So strange. There is too much happening for me to start asking questions this instant. So, I am not going to bother mum with my questions. Not now, anyway. 

So, the very next day, I was a welcome member, once again. I ate as much as I wanted, whenever I wanted. Filled 3 bottles of water just for the heck of it. Then I was about to go sit in the balcony, when I saw the temple doors were open. Sighed, and just changed my course, thanking God in my head, for the wonderment that is a 'Transferable Job'.

This isn't the case just at my house; Many of my friends have similar rules enforced on them during their periods, and that too, by the elder females of the house. What confounds me is that they have been through this. Periods aren't exactly a cake walk. They're uncomfortable, painful and not particularly fun, now, are they? On top of that, one has to deal with more irrational rules and restrictions. Why? Is there an objective argument in favour of this? Times have changed since these rules were made. There is no scarcity of personal hygiene products, and yet, menstruation is considered filthy and foul. Why does a normal, natural, healthy occurrence make me, my touch or my presence noxious? 

When we lived in a hostel, we gave anyone on their period a free pass. We used to get them whatever they wanted to eat, whatever they wanted to watch, and let them be comfortable. Just relax and take care of the blood flow and the cramps. I remember the numerous lasagnas I ate while sitting on my bed, watching FRIENDS. And the numerous chocolates I would bring for my friends when they asked. Why should home have to be so much scarier, so much more annoying, for a menstruating woman?

When I am home (the real home home), not-so-dear, random, unreasonable, inconvenient rules, guess what? Can't touch this.

Na-nanana-nana-nana.