When I first saw the sea

One of us, she saw the sea for th first time ever in Manipal. The trip was fun. We walked and jumped and spoke and ate and travelled. I had a weird feeling standing at the brink of the sand dispersing in water and was so tempted to write. No camera could pan the whole sky, the sea up till the horizon and the stretch of white sand that my eyes were feasting on. Blue wisps of liquid hit my white pearly walls. Plastic, oil and sand were gracing my scalp cream. Rub some slick ash on the border of my vision, the Sun has already friend my pink, deep golden. Smoothen the waves and curves of supple margarine bosom,brush red mud off my soles and wave my hand to little clusters of tadpoles. I breathed air. I had fun!

Performative thought

I sit clawing, scraping at the blue flakey walls of your skin,right where your spine does a sudden curve and changes to opaline, hissing green in time when you trigger the sequence even without poking a lash. I cannot bear the ecstatic, cathartic chewing noises from father's mouth mixed with wet fingers on my shirt. Let me ululate into this tender ear of yours and generate low frequency waves like the drone of a blue scooter, the rattle of a cottong grey cloud, the biting and chewing of your brown hair by copper moonlight.
Cut me up, slightly, by each grain like a red watermelon's womb and make an eight on the peach with the tip of my finger before it punctures a hole. Create more fury by dipping finger in the vermillion tube. Rub the paint, smear, smudge and rough it up against the skin texture. Pour some oil, breeze through a bucket balancing on dead curls of fibre and mosquito legs dismantled near the drain. Do the yoga of my unstable wants and grin with me. Get up, its morning.
We are free, from jealousy.

Pikters skipters

Epiphanies of my punctured night

Almost like epiphanies are not well timed and recorded on video. There are some sentences that play in head like prime numbers. Like the haikus of Basho, I feel myself grow an inch or two in weird times and sometimes being stripped in public in the revelation of little talks. Like yesterday, she was talking about how her mum fed her food and I got a vivid memory recall of how I was fed similarly till I was in seventh grade and I wanted to rush home and cry and get my mum to feed me bhaakhri and moong daal.
That was the stripping of the bare naive person inside. Moment of truth comes when I cannot sleep until I have cleaned the room and my clothes and everything else and in this I think about the conversations of the day and then play the same cassette of the past incidents of eighteen years of life. I think about how I have been able to utter irrefutable common truths with so many subtleties and I felt like a photograph in sepia light on a cloudy day about to break into a downpour. Probably I keep reverting to the old past cassette because they are cemented referal points for similar experiences in future and present. Like a wasp in October. Cam you even imagine that in this mind which appears so thoughtful and preoccupied with a line of thought, actually play seven or eight stories at the same time: exercise and become thinner, save money, finish assignments, finish reading, perform better, look good, don't forget deadlines, i am hungry, i miss mum and dad, i wonder where mosquito is and finally why should I even care...
In such moments I take a deep breath and just throw myself on the bed like at the zenith of pathos and cry my heart out. Then suddenly someone sings "Stop crying your heart out" and I just begin to wonder if I am wasted enough or what. Then, I calm down and read and realise that all I really want to do is travel and read and teach, go to as many places possible and that is the consolation for a wavering life between extreme ambitions and apparent lack of a feasible goal. Also, I forget while writing, become blank, become irritated and then think for two minutes. Yes, I recall...
Whenever such epiphanies occur and I feel more stable than ever, I cannot come to look at the past as a stupid, foolish or impulsive memoir because for me there is not a higher present and a lower past. What I have done in the past of time, I am very much capable of doing and becoming like that even today and in the future. With puffy eyes and a cup of coffee I sit and write and again go to the compulsion of thinking if I actually write well.

February and the pleasure of touch

When you hold me by the loose uneven strand of hair that changes color by each ray of sunlight, when your eyes travel the tissues of my cheek and with every motion of the gaze I turn a deeper shade of pink, magenta, fuschia and purple, when your breath vibrates the air molecules that knock at my ear drum and make a hot orange splash that drowns my brain, I wonder: Is this February or the divine pleasure of touch or just me stuck in your old frame?