the answer.

they think questions of love have answers,
they search high and low
they scale mountains
they pray for thousands of years
they rip open hearts and search
they collect tears and analyse them
they land on the moon and walk
they go on blind treasure hunts

they think questions of love have answers
they forget,
the questions are the answers.

Finally.

Meandering on that starless street
Spinning around on an axis of my own making
Looking for those chains that comfort me
The darkness was starting to feel familiar
The melancholy seeping into my bones
Death sat next to me and cafune
I fell asleep.
Finally.
And I dreamt of you.
I lived my days with you.
I made a life with you.
I decorated our home.
I cooked food that you liked.
And you sat
Looking at that empty space
Next to you.

With this, I thee w(b)ed

They said his chains would never let me go anywhere
They said his darkness would make me go blind
They said his barbs will cut into my skin and leave scars
They said he was broken and my hugs couldn’t fix him.

I disrobed and stood naked in front of them then
They feasted their eyes on my disfigured soul
They marvelled at my torn breast and the pumping heart peeking out
They pawed and touched my naked thighs and tried to create a thigh gap
They licked the rivulets of blood from my arms and my forehead

And they said,
we now pronounce you man and wife
Together in happiness and strife
Locked together in a death embrace
Tear each other or live with grace

I collected my robes and went to the bed we shared
He was waiting
Because that’s what we do
Wait for each other to become unbroken and complete
And create love that we understand.

Call this a ballad.

I looked at him and wondered

All these inches neatly stacked  on top of each other

Did I say neatly?

No not neatly, a little misplaced some of them, like building blocks.

But I digress,

Inch upon inch of perfection.

But wait perfection is boring. And he is not.

He is delight in a frame.

He is a hug in a bubble.

He is faulty perfection.

He is an oxymoron. And sometimes just a moron.

I can’t wax eloquent much about him because an inflated ego is an affliction that we are trying to get him rid of.

Why don’t they have those rehabilitation centers for egomaniacs?

I would give him a birthday surprise then.

But I think I am the ego antidote that he really needs

Quite like, batman. The hero that gotham needs.

I am the hero.

And he is my poetry. My flow of words.

So you know when the words stop. He is being an ass.

Why does this sound like I am not really saying nice things about him?

Because he laughs and smiles more at the not so nice things than the nice ones

And what’s not to love in a guy who relishes your meanness more than the lovely dress you pick out for a date

Who makes you sharpen your wits rather than file your nails

Who loves the fact that your hair is messy

And that you crack dirtier jokes than him.

See, I determine not to get carried away, but he always carries me away

And so do my thoughts,

When my mind defocuses from the world and focuses on his inch upon inch of perfection.

Which is not perfect.

And that makes my thoughts a tiny castle of contradictions.

Just like him and me.

Me and him.

The two of us.

 

Here is me reciting the lines above. https://soundcloud.com/tanzila/call-this-a-ballad

Muskurahatein…

Kabhi muskurahaton se maine apna gham chhupa liya

Kabhi libaas ki tarah apne nange ehsaaso ko thand se bacha liya

Jab dhool ki tarah kitaabon pe chad gayi kahili,

To muskurahat ki phoonk se uda diya

Wazan nahi hota khushi ka kabhi,

Phir bhi isne mere ghamon ka bhaar utha liya

Aur raat ko akele baithe hue, jab ashq bahein

To unhe apni muskurahaton ka qarz samajh ke chuka diya….

A plea.

don’t hold me because you don’t want me to go
you don’t want me to stay either

don’t kiss me because you don’t have anyone else
you don’t hold my head when you kiss me in any case

don’t hug me because you can wrap your arms around me
you keep your heart at an arm’s distance anyway

just let me go please
because I am not strong enough to do it myself.

The midnight hour was the worst.
It always had been
The curtains were not clutched in sweaty impatient hands
The windows never shut hastily anymore
The bed was perfect, not even a single crease.
And the room, it smelled of fresh flowers.
What a pity!
The passion in the room died with their love.
And in its place stood a room a house would be proud of.
But it wasn’t the home of love anymore.