sirfdabba

[sirfdabba]

If you ever want to love me,

Please love me the most non-conventional way.

I want that smiles and laugh love,

I want that silence and stares love.

I wont deny that I am a Rose person,

But if you want to bring me anything, go for green leaves and dry twigs;

Or a fruit basket full of apples, litches and figs!

Dont accompany me to movies,

I tend to enjoy them alone, in solitude.

Actually, they are meant to be watched in silence,

I mean if you dont take this as rude!

Love me like you love your food,

Your books. Your ideas of love.

Treat love like Love,

Your love, my love, our Love.

Like peace is for Dove.

Read me the lines that are penetrated in your skin -

The way, raindrops penetrate in the dreary, lifeless soil!

Lets read poems, lets recite shayaris,

When you hold my hand I am a listener tell me all the memories

Of school recess, your favourite coffee from favourite cafes,

How, once, you took a stand for maggie,

Got into a fight, clothes turned shaggy.

Your first mobile, you lost the documents file,

While dreaming the most absurd dream, fell off the bed in style!

Listen, if you ever want to love me, You will have to love yourself more,

Of course, I wont keep the score;

But, if you tell me that you love your Books more than me, I wont turn sore, rather adore.

Because, I too cant love you. ONLY you.

It will always be a bunch, of - my friends, my words, my shenanigans and you,

Not in that order to be true!

But yes, all I have say is,

If you ever happen to love me, please love me your way,

Love me my way,

Please love me the Love way!

Sanskruti

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[sirfdabba]

याद है, उस दिन जब हम, उस बगुले के आकार वाले एक बादल का पीछा करते,

कुछ चार मील चलते,

दुनिया जहां की बातो को, हल्दी सा, मुस्कानों के पीछे छिपाई जख्मों पे मलते,

पक्षियों को पहचानते, चूकते, पतंगों को ललकारते,

पत्थरो को उड़ाते, एक दूसरे को चिढ़ाते,

बस चल रहे थे, चलते जा रहे थे,

और, अचानक से, तुम रुक गए।

तुम रुक गए, ताकि, ओरियो बिस्कुट के टुकड़े ले जा रही चिटियो की कतार को देख पाओ,

चार मिल चलकर फूल चुकी सांसों को रोक पाओ,

एक अंजान पेड़ के नीचे बैठ, शाम की रोशनी में अपनी कुम्हार सी कलात्मक हथेलियों को सेक पाओ,

कुछ पुरानी जख्मों को, बस यूं ही, मजे के लिए, नोक पाओ।

पता है, उस पल में मुझे लगा था की, मैं तुम पे एक कविता लिखना चाहती हूं।

संस्कृति

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[sirfdabba]

तुम अनुव के गानों की लड़की सी लगती हो।

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[sirfdabba]

तुम जब भी मुझसे मिलोगे, बिलकुल हवा जैसे मिलना। गर्मी की रातों में, सुबह ४:०० बजे वाली हवा की सहर जैसे।

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[sirfdabba]

I dont know what do I want to do in my life but I do know what do I not what to do in my life; and one of the things is: Never getting on dating apps. I want to find love the old school way. I want to stumble into you in a Stationary shop or a MSRTC Bus ride or Local Train or a library. Any place on this earth but a platform dedicated to find somebody. I know how "holier-than-thou" it sounds. I might end up going on those platforms or finding a partner there, but I am writing this just so that I can remind myself that, I never wanted it. If I find somebody there, I want them to know that I was waiting for them at a Lassi Corner or Florist's shop or Panipuri Stall and would have loved them a smidgen bit more if I would have met them there.

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[sirfdabba]

सोचती हूं की नहीं मिले अगर तुम यह पूरी उम्र, तो जो सालो से लिख के रखी है, वो सारी कविताएं किसे सुनाऊंगी में?

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[sirfdabba]

Orange toh mai khud peel off kar lungi, Pomegranate khol ke denewala insaan dhoondo

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[sirfdabba]

जेव्हा वाहून - वाहून पाणी, उडून - उडून पाखरू, आणि धाऊन - धाऊन माणसाचं पिल्लू, थकून जातं; ते घरी येतं नाही का!

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[sirfdabba]

I love how we celebrate World Poetry Day and National Flowers day on the very same day. It might be a coincidence but as long as such coincidences keep happening, my (dying) belief in humanity will stay intact.

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[sirfdabba]

सरकारी दफ्तरों की पीली फाइलों में रखे जानेवाले, 

हल्की क्वालिटी के शुभ्र सफेद किसी फॉर्म के, 

"धर्म" वाले बक्से की सामनेवाली खाली जगह में, 

तुम, किसि दिन, "फूल" लिखके आना। 

संस्कृती

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[sirfdabba]

वो लोग, जो मासूम बच्चों को चोर बुलाते है...

पेड़ो से आम तोड़ने के लिए,

कच्ची कैरी पे नमक मिर्च लगाने के लिए,

वो तोड़ा फल मिल बांटकर खाने के लिए,

मुस्कुराने के लिए।

बगीचे से फूल तोड़ने के लिए,

पंखुड़ियों संग खेलने के लिए,

चारो तरफ खुशबू बिखेरने के लिए,

मुस्कुराने के लिए।

वो लोग, जो मासूम बच्चों को चोर बुलाते है,

क्या वो भी इंसान ही कहलाते है?

संस्कृती

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[sirfdabba]

किताबे पढ़ती यह लड़की, दिल खोलकर लड़ती यह लड़की, बादलों से बाते करती यह लड़की, पता नही क्यों, लेकिन दिल दुखाने से डरती यह लड़की।

रूह से मुस्कुराती यह लड़की, अपनी बातो से सहलाती यह लड़की, उदार, दृढ़, हटी जैसे माटी यह लड़की, हवा, पानी, धरती, आदमजात की साथी यह लड़की।

शान से रोती यह लड़की, शाम की होती यह लड़की, चांद से झगड़ती यह लड़की, गलत पे बिगड़ती यह लड़की।

गले लग कर प्यार करती यह लड़की, कविताओं से वार करती यह लड़की, तूफान, पर्वत, पानी, पुरुष, बस चलती यह लड़की, चलती रहती यह लड़की।

तोते सी अबोल यह लड़की, सागर सी खोल यह लड़की। पृथ्वी के हृदय सी गोल यह लड़की, बरसात की बूंदों सी अनमोल यह लड़की।

किसी बच्चे की नजर सी चुलबुली यह लड़की, अगर रंग हो कोई तो पीली यह लड़की। खेल हो कोई तो आंख मिचौली यह लड़की, बचपन की खाली दोपहर सी नीली यह लड़की।

समाज कहेगा, की तुम अपूर्ण हो लड़की, पर याद रखना, की रोशनी से परिपूर्ण है लड़की। स्याही सी निर्बाध यह लड़की, खुद में ही आबाद यह लड़की।

सिलविया की कविताओं सी सरल यह लड़की, हस्तलिखित पत्रों से निरल यह लड़की, सवाल यह लड़की, हाल यह लड़की, आज यह लड़की, कल यह लड़की।

जिंदगी में पक्की यह लड़की, पर सपनो के मामले में कच्ची यह लड़की, मोहब्बत सी सच्ची यह लड़की, वो औरत बनाने पे मजबूर कर देंगे, पर सारी उम्र रहना तू बच्ची, ए लड़की।

संस्कृति

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[sirfdabba]

To all the poems that I conceived, nurtured them (partially), but then killed - due to paucity of time, interest, will or carebuds - I wonder, am I guilty of murdering them? The law student inside me says, No, you didnt intend to kill them. The poet says, I deserve a capital sentence. But then again I wonder, how do I decide whether I intended to murder them or not? How does the world decide that those poems are dead? Why cant the partially nurtured poems be considered alive?

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[sirfdabba]

If you fall in love with the lipstick me, the hot-red-spicy lips me, there is a high chance that I will detest it for the rest of my life.

I agree that the lipstick me is still one of me's, but the deal is, she is an escape.

She is condescending to the other me's.

I am her when I hate all other versions of myself.

I am her when the "self-love" is decaying in a remote delf.

I am her when its the last option possible.

I am her when nothing else is plausible.

I am her when each of my atom is so fed up of being left out that I desperately want to fit in.

I am her when I, though impermanently, hate me, thus with my own self, I cannot sit in.

I am the lipstick me when I am not comfortable with the seventeen different shades of brown, that make up my face,

I am the lipstick me when the pimple vestiges, keratin stacks and minuscle hills on my face dont go with my dress.

I am her when I am irked out by the black bean bags under my eyes, filled with foam balls ranging from - the 400m start line perturbation till the short hair, blind eyes, bulky specs taunts, from the towering nose insecurity till the "I dont like aggressive, opinionated girls" remarks.

I am the lipstick me when I am disgusted of myself for being nerdy, clumsy, and assertive.

I am the lipstick me when I am tired and with the other me's, am trying to be furtive.

I am the lipstick me when I feel disgraced by my twisted teeth, and want to revisit and tape off the mouth of the 14 year old me, who had recently discovered how hellish the society continues to be to its women, thus had blatantly declined the proposition of dear father to get myself braces, with an exclamation that, "I love my teeth the way the are!"

I am the lipstick me when my body feels like the bonnet of a rusted car.

I am the lipstick me. Yes, quite often I am the lipstick me.

Because, the newspaper, instagram reels, youtube videos, books, cinema, rituals, pinterest aesthetics, poems, walls, stares, people, everything - persistently - make sure to remind me that I need to be the lipstick me.

You know what, there are times when I like the lipstick me.

Though condescending to the other versions of myself, it does give me transient confidence to suppress my vulnerabilities and to face the world.

I am the lipstick me, when my assignments are due and self belief is hidden in the cupboard, coiled and curled.

Actually, the lipstick me is not convoluted, she comes handy. She pleases the eye, she is a candy.

Boys like her, Girlfriends psyche her

She has a fake laugh, her ostentatious elegance sipke up.

Accepting yourself for who you are is tough, I try everyday but I also have to read case laws, attend classes and wash clothes. However I try, and when I cannot, I do become the lipstick me.

But you know what, of all the people, if you want to fall in love with me, I would really want you to try, fall in love with the non-red lips me.

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[sirfdabba]

मैने इसलिए भी बोहोत सारी कविताएं नही लिखीं, क्योंकि मैं डरती थी इस बात से की अगर वो ख्याल किसी शब्द का जन्म लेके अस्तित्व में मुझसे मिलने आ गया तो क्या मैं, उसकी आंखों में आंखे डाले, उस से मिल पाऊंगी?

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[sirfdabba]

Today I walked through the alleys of my hometown. I wanted to have a particular type of biscuits and not the ones which were available in the Kitchen. Thus I walked down to this small shop located a few steps away from my house. But the shop was closed. I was going to return back but then the Aajis who sit in the temple, singing their bhajan, called me. Its been a while since I talked to them. The Temple has changed a lot, they renovated it when I was in 12th grade but I was too busy back then preparing for CLAT, studying for boards that I never sat in the renovated temple. The temple was never a religious place for me you know, rather it was a Sunday picnic spot. A dongar-ka-paani, khaamb khaamb, kaanda phod, lappa chappi, mini lingorcha, playground. It was the place where I used to wait for my Rickshaw at 6:30 am on the wintry mornings, wear saree draped out of a chunri and get married to that one boy whose name I have forgotten, do the Taewondo thingy and spread rumors that I have enough power and skill to kill everybody in the town.

It was the place where I ate the offerrings offered to the deities and never felt bad. I talked to those idols while the Dogs barked and Sun took time to rise, I played with religion while the elders prayed (sometimes begged) their hearts out to that black, adorable tortoise. I was obsessed with the Temple's bell you know, was way too short, thus couldnt ring it with my bare hands. But I had found a stick of perfect length using which, the little Sau used to play with the bell while singing songs ranging from Chikni Chameli to Jana Gana Mana (Indeed, all with beautifully distorted lyrics). I am obsessed with flowers ever since I was a child. On weekends, waking up, collecting flowers from the nooks and corners of Sandesh colony, and making a gajra, and two maalas - one for the Saibaba at home and one for all the gods in the temple, was an integral part of my life. The 19 year old Sau says, she is non-religious, the 9 year old didnt know what does religious actually mean, but both of them would wholly agree to the fact that, some way or the other they both subscribe to the religion of flowers. Sometimes, when I liked the flowers that were offered to the Idols, I used to do a trade-off. I would keep my ordinary flower with them and take their rose or sonchafa or pink hibiscus. When anyone would scold me for doing it, I would, quite emohatically say, say, that, "Its between me and god." (Actually, that was the answer that Mumma told me to give to the hecklers. She has always been the best, I know)

Today, with anxiety medicines awaiting me in my pencil box, I thought to myself, " Ohh what an irreplaceable entity this temple has been!" After talking to those Aajis, I changed my mind and walked a few more steps to buy "Top biscuits." I was wearing a woollen knitted sweater and capri night pant, a kind of costume which I would never go out in, anywhere else on the face of earth. I have been wearing that pant ever since I was in tenth grade. I studied for boards, CLAT and now IPC in the very same piece of cloth. Sometimes I seriously wonder, have I stopped growing or what? Is tgis what "stagnancy" feel like. What if I am stuck in a puddle and now, unaware, unconcious, I have made it my world. But then, I this Uncle, who had pulled me up while I had fallen down while driving my purple scooty pept for the first time in my life, which gave me a smidgen of hope that I can at least drive a scooty without falling down forty times in a ride. I convinced myself that I am growing, slower than a balloon maybe, or ecen a cloud, but yes not stagnant yet.

While walking down that street, I could vividly see my childhood running like an animated movie infront of my eyes. Ohh I was a ruckus, a commotion back then. What all did I not do. All the streets, all the corners of those streets, all the houses on those streets and all the people who lived in those houses, knew my name. They kind of hated me. Not their fault, I was an unbearably notorious, an intractable child. How streets change, I thought. The place where there was a cherry tree, now holds within its bosom a two storeyed bunglow. I wondered, does that piece of land ever miss that Tree? Does it remember that I used to spend so much time finding a "good cherry" back in my salad days? I am a self-absorbed person, I thought. Does that land like that Bunglow? If given a choice, what would the land pick: Cherry tree or the Bunglow?

My biscuit excursion made me wonder, how arcane yet how simple it is that, no matter what, nobody stops. Actually, no body can afford to stop. Everyone is evolving, everyone has to evolve, evolution is not a choice. The choice to stay the same is also a kind of an evolution, if you think about it. Even the streets, even the electricity poles, everything had changed. Not holistically, of course (I mean they havent started painting it saffron as of now, might happen very soon but yeah), still everything bore a tinge of change to itself. I noticed how have repainted the "Danger" sign on the main electricity pole. While walking down from Tuition, I used to reread that "Khatra" written below a skull and two bones, everyday. I learned to read the term "Khatra" from that poll only. The cornermost flat, on the ground floor, of Chaitanya Apartments has made a compound, have installed a gate you know. It made me wonder, now where would all the street dogs sleep on the hot, sweltering afternoons. They even rebuilt the half-broken edges of the public waste bin on the way to my Tuition.

All that I observed, all that my approximately blind eyes could point out, stirred something inside. I was seeing something beyond those physical structures. All the abstractness that came back to me, while I walked down a half-dug, non-concerete, uneven rocky street, was not memories, neither nostalgia; rather it was a realization. Realization, that how, stopping and staring is possibly the most important thing to do, perhaps more important than inhaling and exhaling the polluted air, that a life is a wasted life where one didnt stop and aimlessly stared.

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[sirfdabba]

And after all that has happened, after all that could potentially happen, I still choose to hope. I hope. I try to hope. I force myself to hope. I am standing in front of the wash basin, I have applied the himalaya neem facewash on my face, some of it has entered my eye, it had turned red, I could barely look into the mirror. I wanted to look into myself, but now I could look into just one eye of myself, the red eye is not able to open itself up. Thus I continue to stand and stare. In the meanwhile, the logical compartment of my brain is bombarding facts onto the sentimental layers of the mind, but I use physical force, give it a tight metaphorical slap and command it to hope.

The brain is logical you know, it questions. It asks me, what do I stand for. Yesterday, I was reading an article on human rights violation, it suddenly asked me the meaning of the term hypocrite. It asks, do I still like history? If I dont then where should I dump all the history that I have known till date? The brain says, it wants to throw away all the dates, numbers, deads - the dead names, the dead blood, the dead who are now stories (stories which are lying somewhere under the rubble of a long lost bird called secularism) out in a gutter. Last night, the brain said, it wants to relearn the history. A history which is conveniently picked to satiate the ego and doesnt cause any uncomfort, a history which was all gold and great, a history which was never wrong, a history which was always glorious. I hope it was being sarcastic.

I hoped all day long. In the evening, I looked at the sky and hoped that I was oblivious. But then I went on hoping. Didnt know that even hoping can lead to a vicious cycle. I hoped that the black smoke, coming out of the stubble burning of humanitarian principles, dont come and clutch me. And even if it does, I instantly hoped that it let me go. I hoped that while the smoke's guides are about to behead me by forcefully making me chant something which I dont believe me, and I beg them, let me not be vulnerable enough to instinctively tell them that, at the end of the day (if they consider the mitakshara school, if they consider the blood line shebang) I belong to their team only.

I hoped to never be in such a position that I have to lie to them about the books that I like to read and the movies that I like to watch and the thoughts that keep me up at night. But, you know what, at the very same moment, deep down, I also hoped, that when the "survival of the fittest" animal in me comes to life and I finally prove to them that I am, in the larger schema of things, on their team, I guitfully, yet sincerely, hoped that they accept it and leave me. I hoped that the orange pollutants which make up the black smoke, dont take my life. I guess I have watched way too many documentaries, the ones which have compiled the screams of the minority, that, I sincerely fear being a minority. That on the d-day, on the h-hour, I will shed everything and, while begging the majority to not to kill me, will accept infront of them that I too am a majority.

But then, after a while, (by while I mean, a few seconds) I also hoped, that after begging for my life from the orange polluters, let I have enough hope to kill myself. Because it would be a hopeless thing if I continue to breathe after telling them that I am on their team. I am sure, after the begging ceremony, the reamining hope in my body will, itself, choke me to death.

However, this train of approximately hopeful, somewhat hopeless thoughts, made me wonder, how we all fear them, dont we? We all fear that someday it is going to be me. The ones born in the majority will always have a way out, for sure, no matter what, "their birth in a particular sect" will always be their most powerful weapon, just like my thoughts thought of using them when I thought of myself getting killed. But, I wondered, how we all are at the mercy of the jingoists.

However, then and there itself, I again hoped, preposterously hoped for a day where we would not be at the mercy of the jingoists.

All the books that I have read, all the documents that have stayed with my mind, all the numbers and blood and horrors on which I stand, they collectively come to visit me. They often do, perhaps to check whether my conscience is still alive. Does "having conscience" have anything to do with "hoping"? I dont know. I am exhausted by compelling myself to hope. Hoping is not even a choice, you know. Lately, its been a need. If I were to believe all that I am learning in the classroom, all that I wish to practice in the coming future, then I need to hope. Or else I might die. A death due to lack of hope. A death due to suffocation of hope. A death because one got exhausted by hoping that they chose to stop to hope.

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