AN ODE TO MY HANDS

My hands, not courageous enough to hold all the sadness together, thinks of a monsoon cloud as blood clot in sky's brain and weeps for it.
My hands, a January child, silent and dry like a mustard seed over cooked, tries to remember forgotten love songs and to write it in ancient colours.
My hands, a language died before passing it on, mouths mute prayers to Greek gods before falling asleep over a journal.
My hands, who chauffeurs me into bathroom every night, hangs the head low when it's lover asks it to give a proper goodbye.
My hands, tearing its  stitches itself, hangs like a clothline over an unmade bed, waiting patiently for an apocalypse.
My hands, performs mediocre poems on new year eves, shouting it's lungs dry.
My hands, not  afraid of blood and beestings, keeps duck tapes in its purse to glue together the broken pieces of strangers crying in the seashores.
My hands, a self declared God, feeds it's wounds but never caress them with soft smiles.
My hands, an funeral without tears, stinks of fresh apologises towards everything and anything, just because it was taught to be like that.
My hands, an old monk, finds solace in clutching prayer beads made of knives, seeing red in every line around it.
My hands, like an old painting in a museum glass case, comes with a tiny clause of terms and conditions- 
"do not touch, breakable".

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

 I am longing for death.  Forever longing for it.When people around me crave to live, do everything to have a life, I could never understand it. I could never understand the meaning of their desire. I always wanted to die… slowly, painlessly, and alone. Over time, my death instinct  became an inexorable habitual thought. The yearning to merge into an infinite darkness is there, always. The swelling torment I can't put into words. There was nothing, until him, that could dilute my urge to die. I used to think I can hold on a little, until he disappeared. I was obsessed to wither completely.  Look at me now. I think I have died, when he left. What a metaphor, the old cliché, you may think. I can declare this without embarrassment, but I can't express it. It is really so heavy to be afforded by my vocabulary, thoughts, and consciousness... Many moons ago, I listened passively to Nee Mattume by T.M. Krishna. And yesterday night, like a little miracle, it came back to me...
Read more

THE BOOK OF SETHI

PROLOGUE: THE FIRST TIME GRIEF SANG I don’t remember the first time I heard Ali Sethi. I remember what I lost when I did. Something inside me— the part that kept sorrow folded beneath my tongue— opened its eyes. It wasn’t music. It was recognition. A voice that didn’t arrive like thunder, but like memory—slow, precise, mercifully cruel. It sang in the key of ache I inherited but never named. This is not about songs. It’s about the ruins they left glowing. It begins, always, with silence. And then: Ali. 1 TO THE VOICE THAT ARRIVED BEFORE STORM Some nights, I don’t know if it’s rain, or your voice pressing its forehead against my window. Ali, you don’t sing— you stitch. Each word, a needle pulling centuries through my skin. I keep your ragas in my wrists— they flutter when grief walks in, asking for tea and permission to stay. Who gave you the right to know what longing sounds like before I could name it? Who taught your throat to echo the ache I buried beneath my mother tongue? Sometime...
Read more
If love is peeling oranges, then  God is the transcultural smell  residing inside crescent of fingernails. Consuming prayers,  a bead of fragility in hands,  he tells you that : In love we are blind,  In love we are far sighted. His delicate crockeries inside  a filthy broken sink is  his metaphor for us. The way he scrub them is his synonym for violent love  and antonym for soft grief. Once in a while, the shards of his anger  turns me into a silent film  suffocating under city lights. Then you change into a morning  with mourning , Into a ship torn under monsoons, Into a broken concave mirror, Into a prime number in solitude, Into a black hole singing opera. Still we exchange kisses with words  inside  the holes on our throat.  God chain smoking in his evening gown interrupt us with a question,  What is your religion? This is when a love letter switch into  a propaganda poem  written by plum faced ang...
Read more