a certain depth

what i am looking for is perhaps a little deeper..... a depth far beyond the physical eye can see, one that produces blue reflections in the far end of the eye - both physical and mental..... a depth that enables me to dive into your heart.... to dive, and drown and then resurface refreshed.....it is that certain depth that i am in search of......not the one that moistens my feet, with water striving in vain to gurgle upto my angles as i sit on the banks of that dreamy, lazy river......not that....the depths should be wild, bewitching, haunting, seductive, even eerie...... i need to feel in love and adventerous too.....and then as i dive, i want to be pulled into the wilderness, i need to fill stifled, suffocated, helpless n yet happy...... as i drown, hlplessly, my arms and legs lashing crazily against the stong push of your ebbs and tides, i then need to wear that smile.....not the fake one i forever take from my pink pouch and apply on my lips before i venture out.....but the genuine one, the one i smiled when the first light touched my eyes and my mom's lips touched mine, the one that was on me even when the warm moisture of the umbilical cord remained.....the one that produces dimples in my heart.......and yet, i will lash out in full strength...i will try to hold on to any familiar thing.... i will look for familiar things, a twig, a stray piece of wood, anything to hold on to so i can go back....but the truth is, i do not wish to go back.....and yet i will try, pretend before you...... and you will know....and you will lovingly push me up.....as if you were refusing me, as if you would let me go, as if this one time were enough for you and for me, for us......and then i would resurface from the depths, i would open my mouth and gasp for the familiar stench of air....... and then i would think, some ordinary mortal whose touch i detest - in crowded buses, on busy lanes, in the clothes market, in temple queues - will perhaps see my raised hand and pull me up..... but before i know, before i can even think that you have refused me you will pull me back into your depths and i shall once again be lost...... i shall go down, down, down.......till the very depths, till there is a new world, away from the familiar, the mundane, the boring, the ugly........and forever and forever i will explore.....but every now and then, i know your waves will push me up, pull me down and let me drown, explore, love and smile.......until you can let go of me no more...... until i become so much a part of your azure blue that we will flow as one inseparable whole........that is the depth.....the depth i am looking for in you.......
i do not want the shallow depth that enables me to see the printed letters of the glass ware company that manufactured my coffee mug........
wishing you would pull me into those depths, with love, with care, with the madness in you...... if ever those depths are yours......

travel sickness

i cannot travel. not long distance, not by air, or bus, or car. it has taken me 21 years of my life to realise this. that is huge, considering that has been all my life. the realisation, nevertheless, is shattering. it came, between shit loads of puke and subsequent dizziness during a recent trip. it was only then i realised that this was not the first time. this had happened so many times that even i had stopped paying attention to it. but this was the missing piece of my childhood puzzle. now, this means i may never be able to see all i have wanted to since i was a child. it will be hard for me to pack my bag, put on my travelling shoes n go to historic monuments or go trekking or rafting, or for all that i have waited all these years to do for my parents never let me wander around as a child. worse, i'll never be able to click all those pictures. i hate this kind of existence when physiological factors tend to threaten my dreams. it pins me down, clips those beautiful long elegant wings i have let grow on my mind, smash the window panes of my castle, do everything that makes me wriggle in my cocoon. i hate it. totally. i feel like a sick old woman. damn. i want to fly, far, far beyond the eye and mind can see, far till it is dizzying n maddening n away from familiarity.....far away n wide....i want to explore, walk through unknown streets without fear or reserve.....roam around unknown towns, with no face flickering any recognition and me as me, not conscious of every step, not worrying if some perverse mind will reach its arm to touch all those parts in my body which are deemed to be covered and so attractive.....where i wouldn't have to wear an armour and iron caskets over my tender organs and stifle them and me.....where i will see beautiful sunrises and sunsets and soak into my mind and my lens the beauty of life and my solitude......i want to fly far away and without fear.....

a melancholic green

Even the leaves in this city are melancholic, sad, drooping, depressed. their green is a grumpy old woman, hardened over the years, sour, hostile. there is no smell, there is not the soft touch. they are no eye balm. they do not soothe or seduce, unlike the lush green reed of grass that i have tucked away between the pages of my book, beyond the reach of forgetfulness and the blurring touch of memories. when i whisper in their ears, they do not giggle with excitement, or nudge each other in mischief. they do not even nod in agreement. they are cold. cold as winter nights. cold as only death can be. a cold blue dead body. not the cold of home-made ice creams or the cube of ice that slips down the nape of my naked back. they are a hardened lot, through years of aggression, violence, enimity, corruption, killing, bloodshed. they are witnesses. silent ones. the ones who have turned hostile. they do not crave for love anymore. like sluts whose sexuality and tenderness have drained out by an act of violence for which castration is the only punishment, next to death by slow torture. they are not the virgins, those untouched by love or violence, warmth seeping through their veins, arteries, blood vessels, seducing the soul, the body, me. into misery they are born as into a brothel, a slum, a war-torn world. they do not want my touch, my smile, me. they just exist. and they will die. i am the witness who screams.