Saturday, 27 December 2014

Slowly,  but steadily we are drifting apart into two distant universes.

Everything feels painfully new and I wish on the canvas of our togetherness, there were splashes of white, green or even an occasional yellow , not just a smothering red.

I wish it echoed in splendor foggy scenes of us by the creek, the taste of the vannila half moons we gulped to save our velvet twilights, the sea's soulful lullabies and the bees singing morning songs to the sleeping buds.

I promise to have settled for even shadows cast by an uninvited grey or black, had I known red to be the only tint to hold us together.

In my world,  red has always been the colour of the dying sun pleading the ocean to not let go. 
The tears of a dying moon waving the sun an adieu.
The colour of the a distant planet long separated from its elements, screaming out loud to me of an oblivion. 

The painful colour of your ruby eyes as we parted on that rainy night.

Tuesday, 30 September 2014

Unsaid Apologies

Dear ***

I diluted much too many apologies  in the ocean of my fragile words.  I'm sorry they were beyond your reach-and mine.

I promise you- they were engraved deep in the rocks of my  heart that I little realized was  weathering.  I'm sorry there were no remnants in the sediments that reached your shore.

All I ever wanted was for you to know how much I loved you. I am sorry my meek words were overpowered by the tone of my voice.   And I apologize for the further pain inflicted by the shattered pieces of my heart on your delicate fingers as you tried to sew back my broken soul.

I'm sorry,  I should have known better than to carve  illumed words of joy while you sat in the   darkness  waiting for even the feeble rays of my sunbaked world to rekindle the stars on your skin.  

I'm sorry about the devils I failed to tame- the  claustrophobic darkness in my  shrinking heart tried too hard to escape.  I apologize for the scars their explosion inflicted on your already wilting soul.

Believe me if you can,  I awoke every morning wanting to wash away the remains of a hurtful past from my memories- and yours.  I'm sorry the force of my waves disintegrated the hazy remains of your fading silhouette. 

I promise you,  I have cried myself to sleep on too many starless nights. The dying moon knows. If anything, I have only wanted to be better. For you.

Tomorrow will be the next devil I attempt ceaselessly to tame.  And conquer. But if I fail,  I hope you know everyday has been a struggle- a battle I lost to the goodness of a wounded queen who didn't have to try as hard- you.  

You are allowed to decipher the strength of  my double edged swords differently.  For all I know,  they assumed different shapes from what  I had intended to sculpt.  Like a  beautiful painting turning disastrous by the wrong mix of colours.

But know,  please know,   I will die trying to be the person I think you deserved to have in me. 

And when the scales are set to judge my final abode, maybe the scars in your memories will weigh well over my intentions.  But,  I died trying.

Love,
         Shershada (the way YOU pronounce it)
       

Thursday, 11 September 2014

It was either brimming joy
Or hidden pain
And at times,  both
They were always glistening- her eyes
And how he spent nights trying to decipher
The secret worlds that dwelled in them
Worlds her words didn't vindicate enough! 

Friday, 5 September 2014

In an incomprehensible darkness
The clouds ignited, burst open
The pain wouldn't hold anymore.
Peircing. Fighting. Hastening.
Inflicting more than it freed.
Yet, void of remorse, the freedom exultant.
Still, a ray shined through.
Amidst all odds.
Peircing. Fighting. Hastening.
Only, harder.
And just as she lit the darkest corridors 
Of his dismal, brittle heart
It shone with a light brighter than the sun.

Monday, 1 September 2014

A Thing Called Love.

Let me paint you a picture.
One that transcends all known divides. 
One that speaks of love, of all things beautiful.

I'd paint you the picture. I promise you. But love needs colors, rainbows, and far too many auroras of congruous harmony for me to do it any justice. 
I have drained all of mine in rendering the grey sky with my hues. 

And if I did, there'd be too many colors contrasting the darkness she left behind in your soul. 
Just too much light to blind your already flickering eyelids. But I promised you, to hold your heart dear.

I could say it again, and  a hundred times over. 
And a few times more- that you will be alright. 
And silently hope for myself, just as I do for you, that so will I.

But we both know. 

That when they leave, they take along with them a part of our worlds, that we little knew existed.
And we spend the rest of our days, unforgiving, recreating the lost worlds in others, with others.
Always, in vain.

I would tell you, the universe brims with enough goodness to set you free.  To set us free.
That it conspires to save the good people, our hurting souls. 
But love defies all logic, all science, philosophy. Everything that we know to be true.

You have seen more universes than the rest of the world have ever known to exist, in the subtle nuances of her very being.
Found too many worlds in the single person that meant the world to you.
The goodness of a million others shone bright in your one-in-a-million.
And blinded you to the rest of the world.
What science or logic could explain this love? One so profuse, so consuming. 

This is why my words are meek. 
Too fragile to hold on their own.
Why I fumble when I tell you you're going to be alright. 

Why when you fell back to the raw earth from your heavens,  you fell deeper than you imagined. 
Why at times, you were too numb to feel. 
Or comprehend the hoard of new feelings that now blanket you.
 Everyday. Every single night.
Why there isn't enough light in the world anymore.

You loved with a love you didn't know you were capable of.
You loved enough for the both you.

And when she left.. 
Well, when they leave.
We have enough left in us to indulge in darker sides of the night.
Enough for it all: 
Falling more in love with the ideas of our carved worlds. 
Ideas. More ideas.
Concepts. Scripting concepts of a redefined love. Scripting fantasies never to be true.

Growing too fond of the new found escape- solace- solitude
Of the dark firmaments, the studded stars velveting them. 
Of all things you have grown fond of as you drank away the hurtful nights.
Of vanishing silhouettes, piercing suns and fading sunsets.
Of all things that crashed your empire in the wake of the day. 

Of lost battles. Losing wars.
Lost causes. 

Once in a while, and to an unlucky few, very few times in a while a thing called love happens. 
The darkness of the earth consumes itself to light up enough new worlds in our souls. 
Love happens. 
And then, it is lost. 
Worlds are lost. 
And you have been blinded again.

A few more battles lost. The war too lost..
Lost ideas, concepts. 

Listen close, the universe still conspires.
Relentlessly.
You will hurt.  It will hurt. 
But in the bitterness, love happens. 

Again.





Friday, 25 July 2014

Writers

We are but naive worshipers
Of redemption through words
Hoping to  relentlessly
Fill the fractures in our souls
And faults in our fate
Through well-scripted fantasies.

Stardust

He spoke endlessly of how small an entity we are
Of the growing universe, love and magic in our hands
But in that one moment
It felt like the whole of universe dwelt in his eyes
Like magic was all mine, for an endless instant. 

Obliviate

They tried.
They warned me against my end that was u
Only, you were the beginning of all that was me
The end of my sorrow, my pain, my regret.
I was hiding beneath the mask you tore open
Layer by layer, i unfolded.

I wrote you in the stars, the galaxies
When came the night, bathed in ur glimmer

molded you in the sky- heedful of fragile clouds 
When came the rain, drenched in your tears 

I saw you in the rainbows- in the vivid hues and the myriad tints
Engraved deep in my veins, I cleansed my soul with yours 

­They warned me against an end that would be u
an impending tragedy- your  repellancy

But long after you've been gone 
In search of brighter stars, fuller galaxies and  softer skies 
I've been broken, mended and broken far worse again
A constellation of words have been let loose
Far too many sunsets have been spent in solitude

And I must have a broken judgement, to want it all over again
To accept the years of destruction, for a few moments of your sunshine. 

Monday, 28 April 2014

Untitled

Out there, in some place, imaginary or real
Where all stars shine just right
None too dull, none too bright
Where, I come as I am, where you come as you are
And us, just two souls, shredding the societies bar.


Out there, in that place, imaginary or real
Where all flowers sway equally fragrant
None too fizzled, none too blatant
Where the breeze caresses your gentle hopes,
And I, relentless, stitch together your broken wings

Out there, in that place, imaginary or real
Let us be one, for once, forget these bonds
Let me see you, and the graven emotions you don
Where, all love is foolish, all care is selfish
And us, let us find an eternity in the teardrops we free


Out there, in that place, imaginary or real
Lets us lay below a naked sky
Feel the crying earth, and climb the hills so high
Let us talk about limitless boundaries,
And I, let me find my world in your gleamy eyes.


Out there, in that place, imaginary or real
Let me free you of all your bounds
As you stare into the stars, not wanting to watch our love drown
I'll tuck you in, with a blanket of memories
Away from us, away from me, our world slipping off our palms

Out there, in that place, real, too real
Where we loved with all our heart,
And no truth could do us apart,
Where, I came as I was, where you came as you were
And us, just two souls, lost in a love that saw no par.

Monday, 21 April 2014

These Terrible Inclinations.

Have you ever glanced at an ingenious piece of art, and fallen more in love with its creator than the creation itself? Have you wondered reading a poem, what a miss it has been, that your path hasn't yet crossed the poets? Or if it has, what a greater tragedy the oblivion is! Have you instantaneously fallen for a kind gesture by a stranger? Ever noticed in what beautiful harmony the words sway as a few gifted write?

Literature, language, art and soulfulness- oh, these terrible inclinations.

Of blurred lines and hazy silhouettes
Of what is and what should be.

Of blurred lines and hazy silhouettes
Of what was and what could have been.




At times I'm all I ever wanted to be, but mostly, I'm all I'm not.
I'm a river, I'm a storm, I'm the fire.
Calm, consumed, consuming- I'm so much and so little.
I'm everything I should be. But mostly, I'm everything I cannot be.
I'm the creator and the destroyer- the beginning and the end
For every ounce of me, I'm twice an ounce of what I should be.

Sunday, 16 March 2014

Leaving you behind.


I wish my kind would believe more in happy ever afters and fairy tale endings. But we are the good old realists. The fatalists that live by the events of the day, not looking for too many worries, and with no patience to set flowery, meandering paths leading to the perfect ending. I cannot find an explanation for why I am this way! It is probably a self-assumed defensive strategy to prevent myself from spending time over finding solutions to trivial matters of the ensuing days. Facing life as it comes has been an adventure in itself.

There are very few things that matter to me. And very few people in my life, that I have refused to let go. Being overtly amicable, I have scores of friends, but if you insisted, I could name in seconds the people that really mattered- they are that few. Its an inbuilt programming system- though heavily flawed, cannot be purged.

One of those few things that matter happen to be trust- or the lack of it. I realized today how easy it is for me to stop loving an individual no matter what they meant to me earlier, the moment i realize there are evidenciary circumstances of them being untrustworthy. It stems mostly from the fact that it is so difficult for me to not be a trustworthy individual, and even more so to lie. 

I have always been afraid of my ability to stop loving- and have often times found myself in internal battlefields with myself over questions of injustice to the person in question. But this week has changed it all. I feel blessed, I can carry forward and leave unfaithful components behind. It sure must be a defensive strategy, which I am grateful to have somehow imbibed over time. 

'HAPPY' @ Faculty of Architecture, Manipal University



So, my five years at college have almost come to an end. And I can bet on everything I have, that these have been the best times of life. I learnt a lot about myself, grew so much as a person and saw 78 others bud from artists and designers to architects while parallelly, blossoming into beautiful human beings- the type with a lot of soul and heart and the type that I love. :)

It's always difficult to leave somethings behind- things you have grown so fond of.   Have I felt this before? Yes. Going to feel it again? Emphatically no!  That's what makes this time special.


Sunday, 2 February 2014

Diary of an insomniac



The sky slid slowly into another self, this time letting the stars take stage, and them, almost velvetting the unassuming  firmament with their glare. Happiness of sorts, enwrapped me tautly . Kept me rapt, as  the breath of my soul and the sound of the ticking clock now intertwined into one.  As the populace slipped deeper into the world of  its dreams, scripted intricately  with every detail inclining toward  its own  idea of 'perfect', in hope of an escape from an aching reality, for no matter how short, I  stood as I do everyday, unfailingly gazing at the scores of stars that seem to be yearning  to share their story, sketch an unknown figure or script a lamentful ballad- those that only I would comprehend.

On these nights, I stare raptly,  not noticing the seconds, minutes or even the hours as they speed into nothingness- kindly caressing my wakeful dreams, holding them closer as the world slips deeper into a welcoming slumber.. as I drift away into a newer world that the stars have set, that the sky has donned to welcome the visitor that is me. 

When nights pass, and my resistance to not stay awake seems futile, I expend them staring at the same stars again. Night after night, wondering what new stories they would hold for me. The dying sky glares back at me, as it does every night, selling its disinterested ideas- the same story, the same characters. I listen intently, like the scripts were new.

And when the moments have exhausted, when it seems like there's nothing more to say or that a break is necessary, as in most matters of life, the sky takes stage again. The black slyly giving itself away to the red, and then to  the blue.

And when the populace wakes up to receive the coming of dawn, believing the events of the day are yet to begin, I smile craftily at their misadventure, the nonchalant abandonment of such unparalleled beauty as these nights. 
In almost every childhood memory of mine, I recall myself with a book.

My first ever poem was along the creek side, about a butterfly, thanks to the marvelling world of nature that dad introduced me to, inspite of being brought up amidst big unearthy boxes as I call these structures, in defiance of being an aspiring architect and pledging to replicate one some day.

One of my only childhood memories about India is reading out loud about Goldilocks, the three bears, the fascination still unkempt after cycles of the same book. And also, writing to dad, while my aunts dictated with keen pleasure each word of what the letter would say.

I believe I have always loved writing; that when my younger sister would play with her dolls and be the girl that she had to be, I turned a blind eye to the world around me and entered a more fascinating one that I had scripted for myself, of me and my favorite characters.

Quoting my grandpa (a beautiful writer, to whom I owe this skill along with dad, if there's any at all), I remember him saying, "Give Sheru a book, you will not realize her presence even if you were to share the room."  As difficult as it was for me to open up to my own family about my troubles, I found solace in the few words that I would occasionally pen down. In hindsight. it has always been my go-to friend.

I was always an emotional child. Being the older of the two of us, I would often adorn my role as an elder sister and graciously accept my license to be rude. It was difficult most times, because not only was I fragile with respect to my age, despite being two years younger, Roshi was much stronger and bigger. But I was always sharper with my words- the only kind of hurt that I have ever been capable of imposing on others. I remember how I would cry myself to sleep most nights, overcome by guilt and remorse of how I had been rude to my only sister during the course of the day. I would pledge to myself every night, to be a better person the next day- a habit that has been instilled in me over the years.

And when I failed to be that nice person I dreamt of being, I would take to my diary. From the 9/11 attacks, to the death of Yasser Arafat and Sheikh Zayed, my diary has figuratively seen my grief and anger. The occasional insult that my easily furious mom would shower, the ensuing grief, the new girl in school that could be a potential threat to my academic achievement as the longest standing topper, our family visits to Jabal al Hafeet- my diary has been a kind listener.

I would also write about the people that matter the most to me- a habit I have maintained to this day. I would write about them in extreme gratitude. I remember writing about my mom, about her beauty (which has only heightened over the years) and her willingness to give it all to our family. I grew up as an extremely obedient child, and as I gradually, but surely transformed into a rebel in my adolescence, the memory of this poem probably kept my mom going. 

However, my most coveted piece of writing was to my grandpa, with gleaming hope that he'd recover to read it some day, but in vain. It was also the first time I ever felt confident about my skill as the self-proclaimed writer that I am today. He passed away, not reading a word of what I had written- how badly I wanted him back, how grateful I was for him, how I wished I had spent more time with him and how I wanted to make him proud someday. Some ten years since his death, I wish, even today that he could have read it. Maybe he'd have stayed back. For me!

In retrospection,  I haven't written much ever since. My latest spell of writing is what you'd see here on my blog- most of it only random ramblings. Also, I've taken to sketching landscapes in my free time- a new-found hobby that I have let myself be consumed by. When my mediocre knowledge of words and limited skill of articulation prove an arming enemy, I am glad I can expend some ink in shaping new worlds with my recently discovered love for sketching.



I'm worried, flustered.. scared out of my wits. I don't seem to remember much from the yester.
the way he raised me up everyday, from a fall I couldn't stop
The way he made me smile, the way he  smiled
the little things he did, our long stories,
the nights that seemed too short, and days without him that seemed endless
the walks, the food, the love; the memories have been washed way by the shores of an endless ocean that is time.

I don't seem to remember much from the yester.
The dark has given in to the light and the light has faded into another darkness. Now, theres only an emptiness 
like the  different lives we are steadily pacing towards.

So tomorrow, love, what when we are gone?
When the pages of the stories we hold so dear today, 
house only dust, and the memories seem meager
lost in translation amongst the newer sagas
what if i don't remember these, what if there's no you in my endless ocean and all i want is to hold my breath to save the lost drop that you are?
To diminish my existence for your survival..
How much harder would I have to try?
What will take me through? Through an emptiness that you leave behind,
a void no one else can fill? Through the destruction that my deceitful self puts you through.?
Should I then take to my forgetful memory too?