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. 

You don't scare me anymore.

Not your perfect body,
Nor your hollow soul,
Not of that darkness, of being under control.
Not your strength,
Nor that smile shaped trapdoor.
Not of you, you don't scare me anymore.

No cringing at the scars.
Of those chaffing grips,

Left by you and your blasphemous whips.

No staring into the chasm of the dark.
No nightmares, no silent tears.
No shivers, no more of your fears.

No waiting for a glint of light,
No more watching my back,
For the fear of your spineless attacks.
Not scared of the water pouring down.
Nor of the silent, unhinged door.
You don't scare me anymore.

So, come, stand before me again.
I won't back down, I won't sway.
This time, you won't have your way.
You've had it, too many times, anyway.
I am strong, I bring with me, might.
It won't be fear that you'll see in my eyes.

Give your best shot, I'd like to see you try.
You may have won, many times before.
But you see, I am not fragile anymore.
The wounds have healed
My spirit reinforced.
No, you don't scare me anymore.

Do you remember me?

Do you remember me?
I remember even the smell of your breath.
The way you would move, and around you, the air,
Somehow, always, caught in your hair.

How my heart would skip a beat
When I would see you.
Only, just, see.
A kiss would take my life, then hand it back to me.

You told me there was no love there.
But there was spark.
There was volatility.
There were explosions,so many; uncanny.

Do you remember the night sky, the stars?
The silence that you hated?
The questions that I asked?
A weak moment has me running through the past.

Do you ever think
Of the silhouettes and the shadows?
The dew, the stones, the weed?
How our breaths lulled us to sleep?

Yes, there was love there.
It's just that you never knew.
I caught on, but, a tad too late.
The only thing you couldn't satiate.

I would listen, as you would talk
About the others that ruled your thoughts
Do you know how many times I died?
Parts of me even your kisses didn't revive.

You ensured you never held my hand,
Seized my heart, and part of my soul,
Unintentional, the only aim, la morte, petite.
Oh, loveless slayer, do you remember me?

Done, Undone.

As her arm slid out
From under her pillow,

And reached

A cold and rather

Biting bed sheet,
She froze,
And pulled back
Her arm, still reaching,
Unsure,
And fell back to sleep.

While she dreamt
Of sunshine,
And red Calla Lilies,
And hands intertwined,
Succinct and lithe,
A smile returned
To a face that'd forgotten
What it meant to be
Sunny,
And irrationally blithe.

But a dream is a dream,
How ever hard you try
It ends,
Whether twisted
Or sprayed in calm,
Eyes to the ground,
She walked in the rain
No surprise when she found
Fisted,
Her heart and her palms.

The ache.

There is this ache

That starts at the bottom of my neck

And ends at my heart.

But the pain never ceases.

I remember my head on your shoulder.

Watching your chest rise

And in perfect rhythm, fall.

And fall.

I wait for your warmth

To engulf my being again.

To hear your laughter.

And fill my heart’s hollow silence.

Oh what would I give

To watch you bury your face in my lap again.

To feel your smile reach my face.

And wish good riddance to these tears.

Hold me, from a far.

Lie with me.

Close my eyes, and put me to sleep.

And wake me up only when you’re here.

The house.

They screeched

They scratched

At the windows, closed, 

At the curtains, well juxtaposed.

The dim light that seeped,

The light music that bled

They clawed,and mauled and snapped

At that, which they had not had.

Turned and twisted

Their necks and heads, and minds.

Desire and envy were never in short supply

In the green monochrome of their tinted eyes.

Every lithe tread was a threat.

Every word whispered a writing on the wall.

They eyed the house, every look a stone

What holds up the structure? Does anyone know?

They waited for the rains.

They begged and begged for slaughterous storms.
They prayed hard for hard hail.

But to no visible avail.

In the cold winters, the house glowed with warmth.

Summers seemed brighter in its proximity.

In the rains, it smelled like wet earth.

Oh, what has given to this magnanimity birth?

At the slightest tremor, they ran,

Galloped, to watch the carnage;

But its unassailability brought to their eyes tears,

Poked at, by the shards of unfulfilled dreams and years. 

Their houses had been destroyed,

Ransacked, bludgeoned, ravaged and lost.

The only bricks that did remain,

Encrusted their hearts with pestiferous pain. 

The indestructible house opened wounds,

Reminded them of their own plight.

Filling their hermetic hearts with hatred, this sight, 

For the love that did somehow survive.