The Epitaph reads L.O.V.E.

I can see love dying.
I can hear its last ragged breaths, smell its rotting essence.
I can see love dying; these are my hands that strangle it.


It was premeditated. Each aspect had been carefully planned, there was no scope for errors. The suitcase packed, money withdrawn from the bank, the cab ordered. The escape route was in place.
Her hand shook as she picked up the pen to write the farewell note. She repeated the mantra, her friend and fellow conspirator had given her, "I will not throw away my life", over and over again. She hated herself for doing this; for running away from her husband of six years. But so much had changed over time. 


They had been in college when they had met and gotten smitten with each other. A whirlwind courtship had been followed by the wedding two months after their graduation. In those initial days they had been so in love: they had seemed to live on sly glances and covert caresses until they made it to the privacy of their bedroom at the end of the day. Then they'd make exquisite love. These days they got back from work, ate in silence and moved to the bedroom. He watched the news, she read and then they both fell asleep.
It wasn't as if he was cruel. He never hurt her, not even a harsh word. It was the politeness bordering indifference that got to her. She did not want to spend the rest of her life stuck in this uneventful rut. And so she was leaving. It was all planned. She would stay a week with her friend, the co-conspirator, while she worked the last week of her notice period. She had put in her papers last week itself. And then she would take a long vacation, travel the world, catch up on some of the excitement missing in her life. If only she could get herself to write the farewell note.


The doorbell rang.
It was time, the cab had come. Freedom beckoned, but she stood transfixed, still clutching the pen. All she had to do was scribble a goodbye and walk away from this monotonous, mindless motion of life. She just stood still. She couldn't do this. She had loved and lived with a man for six years, she couldn't walk out on him and on their love. There had to be another way, one that didn't need their marriage offered at the sacrifice alter. She would talk to her husband. They would work it out, maybe take the vacation together. She had to give their love another chance. She sent the cab back and went inside to unpack. Her husband needn't know about the temporary lapse in her judgement.

***

She heard the front door open, her husband was back from home. She decided to greet him at the door. It was then that she heard the voice, unexpected and all too familiar.
"Thanks to me she would have left by now. We don't have to worry about any interruptions tonight"
She walked into the hallway to find the husband and the friend inextricably entwined.

I saw love die.

I heard its last ragged breaths, smelt its rotting essence.

I saw love die; they buried it next to me.

Spring Cleaning

It's quite a task

Sorting through the clutter

Of a lifetime;

Going through this rubble,

The treasures

Of a sentimental fool.

What is to be kept

What thrown,

Nothing in here

Is of use;

Stuffed here

As it is.

I have done without it

for so long.

And discard I must

All, but 

The very dearest;

I start from one end

Packing

With careful fondness

Bits of me

Doomed in the dump yards

Of this world;

Until all I'm left with is

Exhaustion, loss and pain.

And a room 

Clean and bare.

The way it had been made.

Only now

It is a room

I seem to know not. 

Demystified

I felt shy,

But it was shed

With the last pieces 

Of our clothing.

My body ached;

Excitement humming

From every single pore.

And then your mouth

Closed upon mine,

Your breath

Reminding me of

Charcoal and stale bread.

But the distraction 

Of your hands

On my breast

Helped in the

Getting used to.

Our tongues and fingers

Meshed, wandered,

Explored, wondered

And then you entered

Your stab, the pain 

Shattering my ecstasy

Though only momentarily.

Our breaths and sighs

All tangled again

And soon it was over.

We quickly dressed,

I brushed my hair

And we left.

Nothing had changed

Except perhaps

That once spotless

Bedspread. 

Loss of Innocence

It happened,

Happened

At that very moment

When I noticed

That you noticed me.

I was

But a chit of a girl;

Raging hormones

Making me susceptible to

Frequent bouts of love.

You came

You came to me!

And things happened

Maybe happened

A little too fast;

Not that I complain

Or blame you

In any way 

Whatsoever.

It's just that 

Things happened

And I hadn't

Seen them coming.

One moment

There we were

Looking gooey eyed

At each other;

Your urgent hands

Roving over

My budding breasts

At the next.

I am not 

Accusing you

at all.

I had wanted it then,

Maybe

With as much desire

As you had.

After all

My then diet

Of dreamy romances

Told me it was heaven.

It happened

At that moment

When you noticed me;

The moment

That you came.

It happened

At that moment

When you noticed me

But you failed 
to notice

You had left me behind.

Striptease

Eager eyes await

The star of the show.

She of course,

Will be fashionably late

Having aroused

Just the right anticipation.

The stage is set,

Whispers heard

Of the small talk ensuing

To cover up 

the obvious excitement

Exaggerated rumours

Of her naive beauty

Have brought about.

The spotlight's on

The collective sigh

Makes way,

Anticipatory silence following.

She steps in,

Seeming to fulfill

All that was promised,

Not an inch exposed;

Imagination

Driven to madness.

Her keepers give the cue

And off goes a layer

With planned precision;

The little that is seen

Shows perfection achieved

Through hours of concealing.

Slowly,

As the spectators sit

Barely breathing

Out of fear of exploding,

She exposes all.

Or so they think.

The lighting's such

all blemishes are concealed.

You'd think its cheating

But then again

This is what

They have come for:
A Diana
In all her naked glory
and in her virtues;
In the whore on sale:
A bride soon to be.

Just a Part-time Cynic

Of course I'm a romantic

Subscribing to

All the strictures of love;

Waiting for that epiphany

Where the world will stop

As we lay eyes on each other

for the first time.

There'll be sleepless nights,

Surely different from now,

When it will be for a sight

Of your flawless face

That my soul would pine.

It will be then

That I'd learn to live,

Find the meaning of my being;

These twenty years

Being but an excuse

Of an existence.

Of course I believe in love

And would like nothing else

But to lose myself 

(Whatever I have made of me)

In you.

But until then,

The glorious hour that is

When you've swept me

Off my feet,

Excuse me

I have other plans.

I intend to enjoy 

My half existence

Until it's time for love.

Frangipani Laced Memories

Bated breath.

Expectations that hurt.

An exquisite headiness,

Unexplained,

Undeserved.

Every inch of skin,

Aroused,

Excited

The teasing and caressing

Of the intoxicating Frangipani,

Only an unwitting accomplice

To the greater schemes

The ruthless and clever mechanisations

Fate has practiced to perfection.

The same inky sky,

That familiar serenade

Raindrops have sung before;

The treacherous wet earth

So seasoned in causing

feverish frenzies.

Nostalgia.

The slow poison

Of past memories

swirling in the veins.

The bittersweet longing

Of the once carelessly disposed

Drug of ecstasy.

The longing

The burning desire;

Nay, the uncontrollable need

to be in those arms,

Oh! this bane

This cruel call of insanity.

Impossible!

My dream it is unattainable

You walked away

Long ago.

I might as well return.

I am sure

I'll soon I get used to

his otherness.

Till then

I will just have to bear

The slush, the muck

The mess 

tonight's shower of fantasies

will leave behind.

Elegy on a Light Bulb

It flickered
Like the shy blinking
Practiced to perfection
By the seasoned coquette.
It has lived;
Its virtuosity
Illuminating
So many.
But no longer.
The darkness is alluring,
So deceptively soothing.
The time has come
For the heathen plunge
Into the forbidden pool
Rippling with ecstasy;
The time has come
To die.

Wet Dreams

It's a dark world

And all's asleep

I am no different.

But is my slumber peaceful?

My breath is ragged

While I writhe in bed;

The ebony silence

Teased by my moans.

I wake up

To a warm wetness

And an empty bed.

Another night joins

The sands of my hourglass;

As I wake up

Not to your gentle kisses

But to my tears

Of Wedding Dresses and half Baked Dreams

In the white dress

Her white wedding dress

She walks down, so demure

The white skirt swaying

Like the wedding bell

That’ll soon announce her

The man’s wife.

She sits there

Watching herself

Exchange the nuptial vows

Seething with envy

Only to lose herself

In a mirthless laugh

Of self mockery

The very next instant.

She has turned

Into such a cynic

When it comes

 To love;             

And why not

When with all the pleasures

Of the mortal soul

It’s the fabled pains of love

Whose absence

Torments her thus.

She has turned

Into such a cynic

But not quite.

The romantic in her

It’s still there

Gagging

Gurgling

Choking

Gasping for its last breath

Letting out soul wrenching shrieks.

Enough.

She’s had enough.

This sweet nightmare

She wants no more;

But her eyes

They just won’t shut.

She lets out a sigh

Part resignation

Part longing

But mostly just despair

She can’t help it

Her eyes wide open

She continues to stare.

The Flight

Funny how staring out that tiny window into the clouds and that distant shine of a pompous sun reminded her of the flight of Icarus. It was almost like a sense of foreboding. She tried to dismiss it with a slight shake of her head. She didn't need this, not today. Today was a day to rejoice. She had felt a curious sense of exhilaration since she had embarked on the flight; she liked it. Amusing though, that she thought of Icarus. She had been fascinated by myths, mythologies, legends, just about anything fantastic ever since she was 12. And Greek mythology had been her favourite by far. But somehow her connect to it was bittersweet. The adventures of the Gods, the heroes,the titans, they were a mesmerizing escape. But as she grew up, some of the myths and legends she began to relate with, somethings she'd rather not think about.
She got up and walked down the aisle to the washroom. A cousin had advised her to get up, walk, flex her muscles every hour or two during the flight. She glanced at the other passengers along the way; the young mother with a toddler; a girl with so many piercings on her face, she couldn't count them all in her glance, the really old couple, that man with the most startling shade of red hair, she wondered what their lives were like. She would have loved to know their stories. In another world, the old couple could have been Baucis and Philemon, the girl with the piercing could have been Cassandra perhaps. She, well often in her daydreams she'd imagined herself to be Aphrodite, but then they were just a 12 year old's fancy. Her father, now he was like Zeus. No, not for his strength or his greatness, but for his capability to sleep with pretty much anything that moved. She should know better than most.
The last ten years had been such a blur. In her attempt to block the real, she had quite forgotten what she had lived and what she had dreamt. The first time though was vividly clear in her memories. She had been a little over 12. Her first periods brought her mixed feelings. She had heard friends say how painful it was and how icky; and how one felt so irritated during those days. Her own first experience hadn't been quite so painful, though she rather did find it a little gross. But she was also a little excited. She was finally growing into a woman; maybe mom would let her wear lipstick now and buy heels.
And then it happened, not more than a week after her entry into womanhood. She had already fallen asleep, when a big, hard hand caressed up her leg, waking her up. She remembered how the look on her father's face had scared her, made her wonder if she was about to be punished for something wrong. She remembered the colour of his shirt, the stench of smoke on his shirt, she remembered every single detail of that night. She remembered how it had hurt. she remembered how her father had told her that she had done a very wrong thing, and would be punished if she told anyone. But she couldn't remember if it had only been a nightmare, a nightmare she had had very often since then for the next decade of her life.
Four years ago she had dared to mention it to her mother. Her mother just accused her of being a whore and forbade her to ever open her mouth about it. Father had been right when he'd said she'd be punished if she spoke about this. She had a feeling her mother had known this for some time but was trying to shift her guilt of the knowledge upon her daughter. The thought did not upset her. She had resigned to her fate long ago; learnt early that it hurt less when you didn't struggle. Anyway, all that would change now. She had finally got her visa and would join her husband abroad. She would start a new life. She had finally escaped her nightmare. As relief crept in, she slowly fell asleep.

***

She walked into her new bedroom in relief. This was the first time, since the wedding a month ago, they were alone: no father, no fears.  He was already in bed. She walked to the bathroom, freshened up and changed into a satin negligee thinking nothing of it. It was a few moments after she came out of the bathroom that she noticed that look on his face. She realized why she had thought of Icarus earlier that day.

Confessions of someone in love

DISCLAIMER: This is purely fictional and neither refers to nor is inspired by any real person. So feel free to copy, paste it and give it to your love.

I am positively-without any doubt-hopelessly in love with you. It is not an infatuation... not just another crush no matter how hard others try to convince me, and i'd like to believe it. I've tried so hard not to feel this way... not to fall in love with you... 'coz I know eventually it's going to hurt and hurt real bad, not that it isn't excruciatingly painful already.
I hate how your slightest smile can make my day and your slightest neglect shatter my bliss into a thousand pieces. I hate the fact that not only can you affect me emotionally but also the repercussions of loving you are physical... I'd always thought swooning and fainting in love were confined to heroines in cheesy romances. I hate the fact that you are always around and it becomes impossible to get you out of my mind... not that I achieved that pleasant forgetfulness even when I am way from you. I hate the fact that you are so nice... and hate it even more that your are so nice to me...I hate it that you are always there when I need help... which is ever so often. But what I really hate the most is that I love you so much and I know that you don't love me back.
I love you so much i am jealous of every person you interact with. I love you so much that when I look at you the whole world melts. I love you so much that at the very thought of you all the nine muses engulf me in their whispers. I love you so much and it gives me reasons to dream... sweet though impossible dreams and not nightmares I've been so used to. I love you so much that when you are close to me I can feel a physical friction. I love you so much that your slightest touch fills me with warmth and at the same time scalds me. I love you so much that when you sit next to me I have to try really hard to stop myself from running my fingers through your hair. I love you so much that every time I feel low... and its quite often these days... its in your arms that I believe refuge is possible... But that refuge is denied to me. I love you so much that every time I see you smile I just want to kiss you lips and tell them how much I love you. I love you so much that I can't handle it anymore. I love you so much that it scares me and I love you so much that i have to struggle every moment to hide it, forget it, get over it because it's so intoxicating it must be illegal. I love you so much...

Catharsis

Is it really late in the night or is it very early in the morning? Time hasn't made much sense in the last few days (or is it weeks). Well I don't really care. Stagnant and fluid in the same moment as it is, I have become impervious to time. Still, it looks like it is almost dawn. The India ink spilled sky looks just a shade lighter. And it feels..., well I couldn't be as flippant as to call it good but somehow it feels less bad, out alone at this hour. The crunch of the dried leaves is a welcome sound after my self imposed silence. All this while I had blocked out the world, its sounds, whispers, voices, sighs, moans and thoughts, trying hard to preserve whatever memories are left. I embrace my self harder. It is partly the wind, it feels a little chilly, partly because I feel lonely and hug deprived. But mostly I am just trying to remember what it felt like in your big, warm arms. I close my eyes and inhale deeply. Yes, i still remember the exact colour of you eyes, every contour of your face. I remember your voice and how it changed with your every emotion. I remember the feel of your skin, your hair. I remember how nice you smelt. I remember every bit, for now at least. It scares me. I do not want to forget how dark your brown eyes were or the exact citrus peppery smell of you, but I know I will eventually. Even now, with every step I can feel a little of you slipping away. I am searching hard for that baritone voice of yours. It comes no more to my ears and only faintly to my mind. But I still feel jello-fied like I always used to and it almost makes me smile. At least I can still feel you, a right I refuse to relinquish. It does feel like near dawn. I think I'll go and give in to the deceptively peaceful slumber. And when I wake up, maybe it will finally be morning.

The Wait

It’s a velvet black sky and a few scattered stars can be seen shining half heartedly. The moon has already left dejected and the sun is still too sleepy to come out. The night is quite silent, with the exception of the occasional insomniac peacock calling out, while the call of the crickets forms an all enveloping, deafening white noise.
The night is absolutely still. The massive, majestic trees, bent under the long years of sorrows they have witnessed, stand still holding their breath waiting. There is no breeze to come tickle them into light laughter, to momentarily ease their pain. There is no wind to shake them out of their mourning. Foreboding has poured out its dreadful draught, its nameless fear paralysing all under the dark celestial marquee. Nothing moves.
Not even her, at least not at the first glance. The slow heaving of her breast, as she breathes in the dismal air laced with the intoxicating scent of frangipani, is the only movement giving away the fact that she is not a sculptor’s tribute to his muse. She is sitting on a stone near the most wizened tree. Her legs are stretched in front of her, her soft palms lightly placed on her knees. Her long, black hair hanging loosely cloaks her from the night. Her bare ankles are embraced by anklets which could stir up a symphony to shatter all silence if only she willed them to it. The only other threat to the night is her eyes. Those dark, round eyes are lit by a turmoil which if let loose could annihilate the night itself. Yet she chooses to be a part of this alabaster night, instead of disrupting it with any signs of life.
Those large, round eyes are filled with longing, despair, anger and wistful memories of a content past. What are not there are tears, marking the lamentation of present. Tonight, a night so bleak that the nightingale cannot bring itself to sing will be the night of her deliverance. And so she patiently waits, still as the night that surrounds her.
Slowly time drags itself and the sun grudgingly opens its eyes, just a little. Restless young birds bicker among themselves for the first claim on the worm. The cacophony of their arguments wakes up the breeze that had forgotten to blow last night. As it passes the wizened, old tree, the tree seeks a favour. One soft young leaf is gently blown and placed at her feet. She gets up from her seat, picks up the tree’s gesture of solidarity and walks back home. Her husband will wake up anytime soon.

The Date

She let the shower run for a few more minutes, as tiny droplets jostled to hold on to those long, dark locks as if they were a magic beanstalk. The ones that lost grip, tumbled lazily down her body in no obvious hurry; evidently enjoying their contact with her warm, soft, skin which smelt faintly of strawberries (courtesy the shower gel her cousin had got her from Bangkok last month). The warm water felt soothing, though her nerves could not have been more jittery. If this was what Mrs. Bennett had felt every time she complained of nerves, maybe she was to be pitied; if only just a little bit. Anyways, she had better got dressed or she'd be late.

She slipped into a bathrobe and walked to her closet. She knew what dress she'd wear. She'd been planning this night for long enough. But she hadn't decided the lingerie. How silly, specially when she wanted tonight to be...

She chose a particularly lacy set, quickly wore them and settled at her boudoir. She needed to look perfect tonight.

She dried her hair and let it lie in soft curls at the small of her back. She hoped they'd be her partner in crime tonight, especially once they got teased into excitement by the night breeze. She then turned her attention to the rest of her armoury, ensuring all weapons were battle ready. She sharpened those sultry eyes with the right amount of kohl and put gloss on her lips giving them a moist look, full of longing. She double checked to see that she had extracted the very best out of every feature and then got up for the most awaited moment (of course before the date began).

She had picked up the dress almost two months back, a few days after she had met him for the first time. She knew even then that the dress would serve a night no less special than tonight. It didn't matter how long it stayed on, it would play a crucial role. It was a little black dress, simple, short and revealing just the right amount, the kinds Coco Chanel had made a must have for every girl. It fit her like a second skin, a fact that had almost driven her to neurosis. Every time she had subconsciously had a bite of chocolate, she'd run to the weighing scales. What if she had become fat, what if the dress did not fit? Luckily however, the dress still fit her like second skin.

Just as she was all dressed and slipping into a pair of strappy, pointy black heels the door bell rang. She quickly wore the shoes, took a deep breath and walked to the door. This was it.

There he was standing, with a bunch of flowers in his hand. This wasn't that bad. In fact it felt good to be told how pretty she looked. She asked him to wait while she grabbed herself a shawl and her purse. Just as she was returning, the phone rang. She swore softly under her breath and turned back to go inside. She was back, however, in a couple of minutes. Her date smiled and they left the apartment. As she was locking up, he asked if everything was alright with the phone call. She smiled and said,

" Just the usual. My husband called. He said he'll be working overnight again."

When the ramblings began

On a dark, lonely night
I set out to write
One step at a time
Carefully treading my thoughts
As stray branches of words
Tapped my shoulders now and then
And I groped around for meaning
To set me back on trail
For I was lost in unknown lands
Covered with myriad misty ideas
And I wrote on
Not sure where I was heading
But who cared
The journey was so exciting...