From the Diary of Mrs Shakespeare

Bill’s latest screenplay is apparently brilliant; has to be, Chris didn’t seem too happy about it. He says Universal Studios are a sucker for lapping it up like this. But I am sure it’s great, his screenplays always are. He has such a way with words.

Well I should know; I fell for him now didn’t I. I’d been warned and scorned at. He was so much younger, but then again he did have a way with words.

He would charm me with his words and I’d let him. Oh what a fool I had been but what was I to do: he had such a way with words. Such a way that he had me knocked up in six months. And alas all that scorn and all the warnings and for all his way with words, marry me he had to. But such a way with words he had, that he had me believing. He told me his talents needed him to be in the city, his creativity needed the space to grow, and he needed to go. He would miss me, but I had to stay back. It was best for our little Susanna. I agreed.

He was right. All his screenplays have been successes. You can guess by the new girl in his arm every week. (They aren’t surely with him for his looks and they are all too dumb for his way with words). Maybe he’s good because he saved all his human insights and empathy for his screenplays. And there is also his way with words. It always got him out of our arguments. But then again it was his lack of originality that started them in the first place. He never could come up with an excuse ever, the sheer brilliance of which would make me forgive him.

 Originality, well now that’s something I had in the marriage. I may not turn a word like he does, but I sure can turn a story. How else do you think I got him to pay child support for Hamnet and Judith, when he wasn’t even around at that time.

Bangles

Pixie dust,

Dream debris,

Shards of hope

Molded in

Foolish optimism.

They prick,

they scratch:

I bleed.

I still wear them proudly

Jangling on my wrists

Broken Heart Pieces

Alone and barefoot,

Numb with cold

Walking over

An hourglass' lost soul

I stepped on some

Broken heart pieces.

The pain took time

To fool the guarding numbness

And be known.

But it wasn't the pain

Of trampling

Some heart's shards.

I had been so busy

Keeping it safe,

Far far away,

I never noticed

You breaking my heart

And walk away.

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.