Cup of tis

I haste over mathematical sums and new novels and books- I’ve been told I’m too fast for the pondering slow country. I’ve set myself timelines: graduate by 21, leave this town when school ends, live alone and don’t call home today- I turn over the cheese and use it as butter over day old bread, eat it before it gets sour.

I’ve moved on to religiously loving my friends, whose sisters I have never seen, but who I walk kilometers and ride metal trains with. I hold my new found friends a little closer and each time they hold out their hands,  I know the embrace they need. On the cold December before Christmas, after exam halls let you go, when the weather makes your toes all blue, I’d hold my friend close for warmth and make sure she isn’t frozen, I think - I am not ready to lose her too yet. I didn’t know then, that I’d lose my last grandmother in a week after this, I didn’t know I’d be summing up algebra at a funeral at noon, be staring at the way the crematorium  would burn the woman who’s hand I held for a long time in a cornered hospital bed. 

I think it’s this fear of the sweet to sour that I know too well from teenage abandonments that make me know it- that is why when you hold out your hand, I gripped it tight, despite my hands being wet from drinking too much water and your hands being sweaty from basketball practice- I think that’s why your hand that I held on to in surprise somehow made me think of home away from home about how the traffic lights glitter and 

how we could take the bus after dinner-

Before the butter grows mold, before the un boiled water turn my stomach, I’ll hold on a little tighter,  and hope to feel a little lighter when they decide it’s over, when you call me not after summer, when it, at last, goes sour, and we finally forget one another. 

DSM should have this pain written all over it,

to commend you on days you don’t want to kill yourself.

You wake up in the morning with no lump on your throat,

and you sleep not with the dead, but in a world of living, all on you own.

Some wednesdays, I walk with my friends to the shop across the faculty,

and I think- this is life, it’s the best version of life that I would ever see. 

I am then all-right for a few hours of time,

A momentary happiness shrills me till...

I come home alone and sit for a while or think of Friday journey home-

I am then blue again, I miss my mother, I miss my grandmother. 

Some nights in early February, I smile at your existence-

How glad I was to know you, how glad I am that you are happy.

That night, I sleep early and I don’t hate that I am here instead of living a dream in Paris. 

Yesterday, I thought of a future where you didn’t hate me and I was free to take the leap,

I thought I mattered, to my own self, at least. 

My favourite place in the whole world was my mind, you see.

but for obvious reasons of me being the bane of my existence, 

I think she does not favour me.

If she could conjure you up for a moment to make me happy, I’d take it. 

I know she tries to please me like a drink that'd hit me right to my Id!

If she could conjure you up, I think I'd like that- 

but alas! it'll only be a fleeting glimpse, I'll know you aren't real 

and hate the life of you that doesn't breathe with me. 

Taking dangerous corners on foot,  where the busses turn full and its passengers lean towards the ravine,  I think of you, sitting on the couch under the cold fan,  Closing your eyes for just seconds before the phone rings, the dog barks or we come home for lunch.  I walk still, reading phrases of remains of the day in my head,  Thinking of letting go, thinking of giving up hope to come home.  The muddy ground wants us to slip for a laugh,  And as I carefully step, I only think of you- You screaming over your breath to ‘be careful!’ It is your whispering that makes me put on my hat over the drizzling rain or the scorching sun. It is your whispering that makes me walk, not jump.   Did you know Ginsberg wrote Howl- the greatest love poem of all time, to his mother?  I know he means nothing to you! Perhaps I’d be able to get the message across if I wrote in legal jargon- “I hereby grant my wholehearted devotion to you, your honour”  Would you think me ruining language in obscurantism or would you laugh? I remember your talk of Smile by DH Lawrence,  I wish you smiled more.  Why do I struggle through crowds far away from you, if it makes you sad. I think I convinced myself to do anything to make you happy.  I don’t think it wrong, I am your pawn after all, willingly, of course. I’d rather be than travel this life all alone.  I hope you go to America again, before it's too late again and you are on an Embassy line.  If you are happy, I can convince myself to be happy.  I am a conditioned madwoman, I am my own lab rat, you see.  I told you this while you put the laundry into the washing machine, and you didn’t laugh.  The bane of my existence, you didn’t laugh.  While walking crossing the road, I think of you in your red top with sunflowers or an abstract sun,  Sitting at the bus stand, watching me leave.  I only aspire then to be, at least, half the woman you are,  weeping, my marred heart dreams of only such great things. 

Do not make an inquiry of my death, This life, as the state declare was mine,  Mine to tax, mine to vote, and mine to end.  Suspect not my parents, nor siblings-  This was mine, mine alone.  If you could not give me credit for the life,  At least give me credit for death.

In stubborn teen years, resistant comes with pleasure,  Yet I found it pushing me down in a dark lake with corpses,  The asphyxiation from their hands on my neck,  Both brought me back to life, and nearer to death.  I dreamt too much, had too many expectations,  This was bound to happen, Too much of anything could never have lasted. 

I’d prefer you celebrate this,  Not with all the relatives who spit on your face, Do it alone, as I once did- Go to the sea, ask the sky nicely,  If they’d like a cup of tea,  Share your pleasantries, don’t be rude,  Nature judges you not.  Take the trees a gift, a bottle of water to sip,  Perhaps you ought to walk the woods,  or even the park where the grass blades don’t cut Be on time for the nightingale’s performance!- They admire punctuality,  Don’t be coy to wish them luck,  They’d nod to you slightly, make them happy. They’d bring me news of you and  I’d look up at you and be glad of your fun.

We had to take basic mathematics,  When we had deliberately chosen these liberal arts to avoid math,  Simultaneous equations in tutorial 4 beckoned to me  And I, with it being one I could remember from high school, beckoned back.  I never could learn how they could come in real life,  Except when rage and tenderness existed simultaneously in the same body.  I’d mark the aggressive and suppressive rage as x, It's equally soft tenderness as y.  Why was it that they could not overcome one another,  Always a push and pull, resisting the mix.  The furious x torments me! My roots disheveled and flowers down, the winter approached slyly.  Y was all spring and summer, charming my stubbornness and letting the warm sun in.  I didn’t know x and y was in cahoots,  All this time, I thought I ought to leave one behind.  But all the tenderness made me angry,  All the rage made me soft!  They laughed holding hands, making a puppet of me! And being masters of the marionette strands! The equations do me the same, topple me over the roots and loot, to make me fall, And has their field day from you and me, crying at each pause!

An epitome of all idealism for one, 

blended into you,

So wholesome, such magic

yet your door opens to one,

hell’s bending, tangling my feet,

A non-existent hand and Charon breathe

in my ear, he says;

“This one’s too good, not for you, you see”.

Lonesome and tragic, 

the ferry carries me not,

in Acheron, I remain and wonder.

the familiarities of you escape me, 

the slithering serpents of the North

brings me news of you-

amidst snow caps and luxury trains,

swift across the Rhine and Danube and Elbe, 

the chivalrous heaven-sent of the cloud kingdom,

never to cross the lethe-wards.

Neither a lucky penny nor a drachma aids me now, 

Eden fades and crater gates close,

with yearnings that it reaches you not, this morose.

Already underground am I, 

and she plants her flowers to keep me company

Internationally acclaimed,

The finest this family will ever see,

Kindred in a way we cannot not forget.

She paints this enclosed white walled manor, 

With a colour washed tapestry, patched with rich wool, 

unfound in any bazaar that claims to bargain them.

She swifts an unburdening guest, 

On the terrains of earth,

The nature too is glad, she’s here with her.

The bane that is my existence is glorified by her

Who shares her warm life blood 

And a freezing tomb I would be, 

If I were to survive devoid of her.

Gathering the candied peel, suet and currants 

A mushed mixture you make, 

Then you sob solemnly over the destroyed purities, To stop and just worship for a ache remedy, Then proceeds to distruct,  With a mix of mincing knives and scissors  from hunting shops and arches stores. would make mincemeat of you and me both Stubbornly, choose destruction over prolonged healing, Experience the wounds again, The caged remain caged when doors open,  Brews the mincemeat, leaves it out the pastry, Mincemeat swallowed whole.

With the burning sensation in your intestines,  excrutiating pain transmits to the surface, Till the skin burns too  And you’d zip it down to sit under the shower-  Just in flesh. The ice cold water wash down the rotten mush that hurt you, The skull turned clean,  Scooped out like ice cream, Till it’s entirely empty. Put a little lavender shower gel so it’s scented  To stand out in hell- It’s all going to work out in the end.  Without this face and without plastic surgery,  It’ll be transparent,  That’ll make you good- that’ll take you off being the second And without the the convoluted undercooked goo- there’d be no encephalitis,  No disease, panadols may just be a keepsake.  Cocaine would go right through you,  So would expensive vin de rouge. You wouldn’t be the one you never wanted to lean on anymore The organs would fall to the pink tiled bathroom floors, And the blood runs out,  The brittle bones washed,  dried under the fan amidst a cold evening day. It’ll be just okay- Isn’t a star supposed to be on fire,  Be burnt in flames first, to shine best?

All this love I have for you I hope they dissolve with soap and water Taking all that foam,  I blow bubbles to the skies And my vices with them, My crisis cries, My impulses die, Soap! you save my life,  The rivers could never have done such a noble job, With all their moss and algae,  It’ll trap the hurt like a net,  But you let is wash smoothly, No stone slippery,  None so voluminous, You blather not to me,  blow-drying the sun, hardens thou while the honeycomb smell of luxe linger between my fingers And I am better, or so I think. 

Soft blue skies  and the wind tastes like the sun Honey like streaks fall to the ground  And I stare up the sky- The clouds guard your kingdom, Perhaps you tend to the flowers there too, Its petals that linger for your touch,  The cherry trees that blossom for you, Perhaps they play you music, to drift through the white gleaming pools. Is it like your youth, before we came- Do your beloved wait for you,  You must be glad, to sip the smooth air on your way home.  In your gloom, do you puff it to plumes, moving the clouds, The pillars of white must annoy you, White gets dirty and you kept them all in closets safe, Is it really like the hanging gardens, flourishing fabled fountains ? When the evening paints the sky,  All its grandeur in final goodbyes, Welcoming the humble white moon from the sea, Do you come to see the mauve scene,  Or is it you, who paints it for me?

I leave the party- always returning, to how I could’ve worn better jeans Or smiled a bit more, I hope my mood was better enough to have complimented more, And to have blended in better- But all of them are so fluid and graceful, Patient and poised, How could my mess ever be the same? Equal to their names?

I ponder after, for hours and days,  The same old memories till they rot, The party people sleep and wake up a fresh day, And I persist- In the same room, the same place. I am not remarkable enough to be remembered, I am no Van Gogh, da Vinci nor the queen of hearts, They won’t remember me but I persist like I do, In margins of my second hand novels, Inked finger print on my cupboard, scratch my damned initial on a tree who pities me- I persist with lipstick in the glass at the party and  In the swan made serviette at the table-  In the twenty years of my living,  I am yet not solid, Yet not me, I still spend too much time trying to keep my self alive- I hope you’d keep a place for me till I am whole, Or hold me a piece of cake at the party, if that's okay. 

  My pockets have become a constant drugstore,

With painkillers and strepsills and it smells like the cough syrup spilled on it last Friday,

My laundry isn’t drying and the food is almost rotting,

I’m losing track of my pocket money and am not tracking my change anymore.

The mornings are cold and before I get to look at the rising sun, 

I am out the door to walk miles to reach a place I never wanted to belong to.

Recently I’ve found a friend who’d take the road with me and 

I hope she knows I admire her for her adapting and adopting skills.

It’s getting cold; the weather, the coffee, and my heart, 

and the dreams I had for me cradle someone else in their arms,

I stare, there’s a lot of staring-

At windows and the plants, I’ve named to keep me going, 

staring at the eyes of my lecturer wishing a transcendence of knowledge to occur,

staring at empty chairs hoping to find my old school friend staring back at me. 

An unspoken bond too genuine- I miss her asking if I’m okay and I miss her,

I miss her more than the friends I hung with,

They don’t talk anymore over battles excluding me.

I come home to be my empty self again, 

and my cousin silently tries to console me,

he doesn’t know what to say.

I’m cleaning my home bathroom again, trying to convince myself there’s more to life.

A lyric poem that lacks rhymes and comfort barges out of me, 

and -this is it. 

That’s what I am trying to say. 

I take train rides home with casual friends,

They make you okay and I am thankful for them.

The sun is cold today, this never-ending cycle hurts him too. 

Inflation makes the price of two meals and a train ride home equal,

Equality cries, this was not what they fought for.

I haven’t unpacked in my expensive rented room,

My hair falls on the floor and I’m pondering over if 

I should’ve brought a bottle of hair oil, the one with a broken cap at home.

I call my sister to ask her about her day, and she says she's lonely,

but when I’m at home, she forgets. 

I miss my dog at home, her tired napping, and her outings to sleep under the sun.

I see dogs here and it’s not them, it’s her I see.

I have homework and crying due, I keep pushing them away. 

Anecdotes and anecdotes of pain preceding hope, and I wish I could scream. 

But time is running, begging me to chase it, play cache-cache. 

On a new intercity bus with my mother, I take the mid-noon ride,

Leaving hallways of familiarities 

For this new untrodden life.

I’ve outgrown the scratched blue walls in my room back home, 

I learn new shortcuts to college.

My life fits now in hand luggage, with broken straps and torn fabric. 

I am torn, 

Between walking out and walking in.

I grip tightly to fleeting moments, 

I must lose it all again, for my hands to be free.

I fall apart on an improv kitchen floor,

Take my hand, I’d beg if not for this pride,

Please.

Don’t let me go. 

I’ve struggled thus far to be my own person,

I used to think it’s something we’d be handed on a silver platter,

Something we cannot possibly ignore, until,

I accompanied my mother on evenings,

To nurse my grandmother, to watch the telly at midnight morn.

I collected her novels, poems and dusty storylines,

Her fondness poised in nursery rhymes-

I let myself be close to her,

And found out something,

A mystery in plain sight, one I could not resist. 

It sparked like a dangerous taser,

An electric chair that makes you saner-

the woman in her fancy wheelchair with a clean plait 

seemed a mirror, in disguise, staring at my face. 

The cold gaze in her youth age,

The memory that speaks of fallen days,

Her visage after a witty phrase,

The silent erudite, a heart disdained.

Quite a character I feel to match,

But I assure her regality to me is, mismatched.

How dearly I wish to wear her name,

Trace her hands on tilled earth green again,

Pen on a crossword in utter glee

And be the Clementine she’d need!

It seems so distant, I cannot quite reach,

I wish I could travel ages back to the streets,

To meet herself in just twenty years but -

It is now late, and though at least

I wish I could have her here with me.

In one hospital bed she lies,

Neither a 4711 nor flowers by her side,

‘She breathes slow’ my mother says.

Her eyes begging to flow but locked in for late.

I try to skim for Yeats, Hardy and Keats,

But no word of mortality will comfort this feat,

How does one prepare for an end?

Wear sackcloth and ashes in hope of a change of fate,

How can one ask for a miracle today?

How do you possibly break bread with the dead?

If I could go back in time, sift all my wickedness and whims,

Then heaven would beg for me instead,

But now they want you, to keep you for themselves.

The impending agony brings only your smile,

A painful dote reminder I’d treasure for life.

I want to run, to scream and look

for you for a final goodbye-

To be passed the parcel and to wish you Godspeed,

But I’d run only too far to see your garden of Eden now overrun with weeds.

 T

26/07/2022

He advances slowly One foot barely moving  Orders come to charge - On the other side of the barricade, Familiar eyes of old school friends Holds a pain he longs to be a part of. To be rid of a regime,  and the morning scare, to push away the sweaty boots and  walk in glee without camouflage gear. Instead the sergeant caws again! For when he holds his shield too low- easy to invade, to let them in- He goes close to the gate slow. He inhales the breath and shares the liberal air, one he feels too close but too far for him to bear, As the silent trigger release, he falls! 

and none cries for him.

It was always too heavy for me to carry all this love,  affection in pockets and extra embrace weighing me down- I always felt  packed too much for a too-short trip and my back was bent, hunched from the baggage. Sometimes, I carried it in my hands,  and the straps left red marks on my palms, scraps of skin came off in days  and took too long to heal,  even with all the Chinese balms and eucalyptus oil- sometimes my brain cries, tells me to put it down, but where can I put it down? to be frank, if I do, I am afraid I won't pick it back up to be frank, if I do, I'm afraid you'll run.

My four-hour train from the hill country to Colombo took me through time, Sleep couldn’t accompany me and I just read non-fiction my first two hours- up and up people came, the cheap train;  Their savior and stalemate. The crowd standing with frustrated faces, though somehow managed to join in the shout of joy when we passed under the tunnels. Money may just be paper, But it rips people apart, the way sad poetry does, and the glum-faced politicians with their newly painted, fuel-filled cars closed their eyes for the journey home. My university will close its doors tomorrow, and we’d be confined to home, Their popular greens and natural sight of fresh fields in June, can’t lighten the broken hearts anymore- Privilege can only go far when freedom comes at a price.  Out the train window, a girl in a bright pink dress wave at the train,  Her hand shyly comes up for the goodbye.  Little does she know, her future is borrowed.  More and more, I yearn to leave and  In the struggling eyes, the knowledge devours that this fight, though brutal is ours- And much to my own shame- I wish to god it wasn’t.