The Ghost contd…

Introduction:

 

A guy I once had a thing with had accused me of being heartless; had said:

“You feed off pain, yours, mine and everyone else’s. That is the food for your poetry and prose; the nectar to your hive.”

I don’t disagree with him. I am no preacher and neither do I pretend to be something holier than thou. I am just a writer; a romantic if you will, always out to achieve the impossible; the impossible expedition, the impossible relationship, the impossible situation where you need to stick squeezed out toothpaste into its tube. Impossible, impossible, impossible.

But pain’s just my bread and butter and neither do I deny the fact that I revel in it and nor do I pose to be not-guilty.

I am guilty guvner; so hang me by all accounts.

Consider this: a tale for the passing traveler and a means of satiating their thirst. Thirst for gossip and thirst of drama.

A small tale whose end I leave you to decide.

 

The Ghost contd…

 

It had been two years since the exchange of glances in the bookstore. 2 years since my ghost walked out the backdoor with a smile on her face. 2 years of winters and 2 years of clearing the snow from our front porch.

I can see the dead bees in the ground- a bee graveyard. Last night’s thunderstorm had knocked the hive out of the tree and the unsuspecting queen had been crushed to death along with her children and servants.

They say that it is at moments you least expect that the force of the hit is most. I experienced that hit last night. It was a text message on his phone that got my guard up.

“Honey bun…I miss us. Come back to Cali soon my love…XOXO.”

The sender was titled ‘Work’. I could hear him whistling Bee Gee’s Staying Alive in the shower. It was 9:45 and we were due for dinner at the Mason’s at 10:30. They were completing their ten year anniversary.

Jake came out wrapped in a towel with his hair all tousled and brown, just the way it was the first time I had seen him. His eyes still had the piercing power it held and his hands- his strong masculine hands covered with a layer of light brown hair- reached for his shirt.

“D why aren’t you ready yet?” he asked in his honey voice.

“Who is ‘work’ and why is ‘work’ crooning for your love from Cali?”

His face changed. From a light hearted spark, his eyes went to that of a defiant child caught with his hands in the cookie jar to that filled with rage.

“You’ve been reading my messages? How could you do that to me? To us? Don’t you trust me? This is unbelievable. I am out of here.”

And just like that it was over.

Bags were packed in a matter of minutes and the taxi was called. The funny thing is that none of us spoke. The Masons were sorry that we couldn’t make it and ‘work’ was really pleased that she didn’t have to hide behind a noun anymore.

I was back home- to my tiny flat- in a matter of two hours. The storm was raging outside and I could hear the wind whisper- I told you so.

The tequila bottle stood innocently on the shelf and called to me, as if asking me to embrace it like an old friend.

It was successful. Half a bottle later, I could hear her sing to me:

“Drink up baby, stay up all night,

All the things you could do, you won’t but you might…”

This was our favorite song: her and mine.

“Missed me have you?” she asked while caressing my hair.

“In a way I have,” I sobbed into her lap.

Her cold hands brushed against my cheeks and her cold lips pressed against my forehead in a sisterly way.

When she bend down to kiss me, her curls covered my eyes and all I could feel was darkness.

The night held comfort. Nothing could go wrong anymore. The worst was over and she was back. I was free to rejoice in the night once more. The pretention could be thrown out of the window.

After an eternity of her comforting embrace, she pulled me up and led me to the balcony.

It was almost dawn and through the pool in my eyes I could see the horizon: clear with a hint of cloud and the tiny speck of light that was the sun. The breeze rustled the trees as if waking them up from their deep slumber and telling them of a new day, a new opportunity.

I went close to the railing; spread my arms and felt the chill pass through me. If was scarily beautiful. That beauty could destroy, just like a set of luscious red lips on a petit maiden.

But warning of those evils never stopped anyone from falling for them. I remembered Desiree and her tragic love affair with the fearless Napoleon. Love consumes all till only ashes remain.

Today was the dawn of ashes and along with the rustling, the puppeteer upstairs rained down ashes of a fragmented relationship on me, freeing me from the clutches of him and his web of lies forever.

The storm had cleansed at last and my ghost was back with me for eternity.

 

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What Pink did to me and what it didn’t!

I was reluctant to watch the movie- Pink since the very first moment. The reason was simple- whenever I watch films discussing gender issues and women’s issues in particular, my blood races and my heartbeat quickens. It makes me think and that is the worst thing I can do to myself because I over analyze to such an extent that I lose my night’s sleep.
 
Pink made me cry. Not because it had powerful actors (which it had) and a predictable plot (frankly a daily affair for those of us who get a chance to glance at the newspaper every other day), but because it showed Delhi for what it was.
 
I could recall the whistles and the whisperings behind my back about my cup size while I walked down the streets of Karol Bagh as I saw Minal being molested in the car by 4 boys. I could visualize how it must have felt as Falak was asked to leave her job. I could feel the gaze of the colony-walas on the girls as they got home late at night and their judgmental look was all too familiar to me.
 
As a girl who has lived alone in an apartment, had more male friends than women ones and as one who loves to party and drink, I felt the pain of Falak, Minal and Andrea. After all, which lady in 2016 would not?
 
I cried internally and then after a few drops of salt water down my eyes, the grand Amitabh Bachchan came to the rescue. The father figure, the best brand ambassador patriarchy can ever have (pun intended), was speaking for women’s rights. NO means No was hammered into the viewer’s head.
 
But I had a problem. I asked myself, “all of that is fine…justice prevailed at last, but why was it the same old narrative?” Why was a man defending a woman- the ‘pitas’ and the ‘bhais’ we tie our rakhis to?
 
Then I asked myself- how would it be if a woman had played Amitabh’s role. Instead of the father figure, if a mother figure had defended the girls or the girls had defended themselves, how would the movie have panned out?
 
After all Akshay Kumar could defend himself in Rustom. How about Minal doing the same in Pink? Then my twisted mind came to one conclusion- women, if not Kali when required (and a situation like this requires it), will become lazy if they rely on a man to solve their problems for them.
 
I don’t know about other women, but I do (unconsciously) turn to my father and boyfriend for protection when I am eve-teased or harassed. I never do what has to be done myself.
 
So today, after a day on intense debate and watching a film that made me cry, I take home one lesson only- never again will I turn to anyone else but myself for defending me. If that means fighting till the end and losing the fight, I will do so unashamedly.
 
I will lose my sleep tonight just thinking about what my world would be like- where a lady defends her own like Kali did. Call me a dreamer, but I do hope to God that I am not the only one!

Poetry

‘Poetry is inspired;

A result of divine intervention,’

that is what they said

when I asked how.

 

Inspiration wasn’t easy to find;

The trams, the dirt and the sky;

None did any good.

 

Words were jumbled;

Phrases strewn across parchments;

And feelings left unfelt.

 

I took to the smoke;

Relied on the solace of Shiva

And the drink of the Devas.

But none did any good.

 

Then I saw you.

No it wasn’t the eyes,

The teeth or the skin.

It was the soul.

 

I said, ‘I am damaged goods;

Carry on brother.’

You said, ‘who is not;

I am here to stay.’

 

Speech was clear;

Sentences woven to perfection;

And feelings, a balm on the tired soul.

 

Now I say to them,

‘Poetry is intoxication,

but of a different kind.

It is the leap of the heart

And the bloom of the soul.

It is you.’