Breathing Memories.

A lot about me

Is about death.

My love

In flesh and blood

Died while I watched

And a part of me

Died with it

On some days 

I smell like

Those white flowers

That are placed

Right beside

A dead body

Some days I smell

Like the dying fragnance

Of incense 

I look like sunsets

And a lone tear

Right before 

It exits the corner

Of the eye

I'm all about endings

Unexplained 

And sometimes 

Unfinished, even.

But what is it like 

To live with

A thousand dead bodies

Inside you?

I say,

I've never felt this alive

I challenge death

And its sidekick: oblivion

I breathe

I live with memories

And I ponder often

How strong our memories make us

Remembering is a painful joy

One feeling that I'm quite inept

Of explaining

Probably an abrupt ending will do

Just like everything else

That once was.

Why I write on Love.

I write on love

Because I know

All about it.

But then,

I don't.

I spill my heart on paper,

Expecting it to understand

The feeling of love

Because I'm pretty sure

What love looks like.

But I am still

Hung up on the fact

That I haven't really

Known how it feels.

Maybe it's like

Seeing someone

Who loves you

With all they have.

But then,

You can't comprehend

Why it takes so long

For you to commit

To that person.

Maybe it tastes

Bittersweet;

Almost like

The taste

In the back of your throat,

When you realize

That you've fallen

For the wrong one

Who'd eventually

Break your heart

Or worse,

Leave

Without doing it;

So that you're the one

Who drops on the floor

And shatter into pieces.

Maybe it's like

Making the same mistakes,

Over and over again,

Knowing that

It's still a mistake

Even if

You make it with a

Different person this time.

Maybe it's like

Writing letters

And never giving them

Because you thought

It'd be silly.

Maybe it's like giving

Those letters anyway;

To the person,

Who you know

In your heart

Is the one.

But you're too scared

To put a foot forward.

I write about love

Because I know 

That this world needs it,

Even if it is not really 

A good place for

Love to exist.

I write about love

Because without love

Things would fall apart,

Never to be joined back again.

On grief.

When my tongue gives up

I pick up a pen

To write poems

And letters

That I'll never send

You always marvelled

At my intense expression 

While penning down a thought

You once clicked a picture

Of me writing

That was not a pretty picture

Because that day

I went back home

And cried myself to sleep

Because our love was falling apart

And I didn't know what to do

So I felt grief

In the most vulnerable way

It can be felt in

I felt it

And wrote verses

That never made it

On my Instagram feed.

Do you remember

How I used to read

Poems to you?

And how I used

To talk about dead poets

As if I've lived their life

Before they ended it

As if my soul died with them

As if their grief was mine to keep

Forever, inside the pages

Of my worn out diary

People say poets are sad

And they know nothing else

I tell them

That grief is a poem

Written for a beloved

And recited

Over and over

By an ignorant world

Not realizing

It was written

On her death

Grief is difficult

Like Nietzsche

Grief is a series of suicide notes

Known to the world 

As art

Grief is like Plath

Wanting to be loved

And yet dying alone

Grief looks like 

Dried flowers

That once lived

And yet were plucked

To be put on graves

Grief is me trying

To understand my own sorrow 

Through a list of words

Grief is a countless number

Of things that might not

Be related to death

Grief is very much alive

It lives and breathes

In all of us

Hence, grief is a poem 

Because poems live forever.

We are damaged goods.

 We are one broken generation.

We are Icarus' offsprings,

Flying too high;

Too near the sun.

Hence we drop down on the ground;

We fall,

Without a dull thud,

Without blood.

We fall,

With a million meteors

Accompanying us on our doomed journey,

Making it appear beautiful

To the people looking up at the sky;

Ignorant of the number of deaths

It requires

To create something so beautiful.

We are a generation of dreamers.

We never break from our slumber

Even though the world is screaming

At our ears,

"Too sensitive!"

"Too honest!"

"Too brave!"

Yes, we are a bit too much

Of everything

Normal people can't take in

And will never understand.

We are too real.

We are a generation of artists.

Each one of us

Is art itself;

And the artist too.

We have never believed 

We couldn't be both.

We are mad;

We are wild;

We are living,

Making this wretched life count;

One breath at a time.

We owe it

To the million chances

We have given ourselves

After gulping down pills;

And slashing wrists.

We deserve every bit 

Of this life;

However sad it is.

We are a generation

That has more to give

Than grainy monochrome photos,

That people mindlessly scroll through.

We give pictures to captions;

And not otherwise.

We shout;

We spill;

We rant.

We cannot compromise,

Because our conservative households

Want us to.

We are voices

That will scream

Until we are heard.

We are a generation of the dark.

Dark thoughts;

Darker souls.

We spill ink

In place of blood,

On blank pages.

We are made of busy days;

And suffocating nights.

We struggle with every bit

Of waking up in the morning,

But don't let the world know

That we'd hoped of not making it

through the night.

We hide;

But with SOS signs;

If anyone would just care

To look for them

In the depths of our eyes.

They scream;

"HELP!"

We are a generation of lovers,

Waiting to be serenaded;

To be cared for;

when we can't do that

For ourselves.

We hope a lot

And that's one of the reasons

For our misery.

We keep our eyes open,

But we do trust a lot.

And when hopelessness visits us,

In the form of heartbreaks

Or betrayal,

That is not quite a pretty sight.

But we are a generation of believers.

We think we can move mountains

And change the course of rivers.

We think the world will change;

For the better.

So we sit,

And wait

For the day

When we'd start feeling alright.

Till then,

We appear as a generation

Of Admirers.

We look at pretty skies

And compose imaginary verses.

We try to shape our mess

And pose for group pictures

We are anxious people

We are too good

For this bad world.

But that's the catch;

We know there are others;

Just like us,

Waiting to be recognized

From a distance.

We live on;

In hope of meeting the one

Who would see us for us

And pass a knowing smile

"You too?"

"Yeah, me too."

Image: Pinterest

Notes to Self: 01

You.

Well, you were made

With care.

The right proportions

Of ingredients,

Mixed into a beautiful whole.

A spoonful of stars;

Half a cup of dreams;

A pinch of sorrow;

Mixed into a bowl full of chaos.

So,

Whenever your eyes twinkle

With unsolicited happiness;

Know, that it's the stars,

Shining in your existence.

You are, because they are.

They are, because you are.

When people tell you,

That you dare not dream;

Tell them, you're brave enough.

Because, you were made with them.

When you feel sad

About a void inside you;

That you never created,

Let your tears fill that up.5

Because,

You, of all people,

Would know,

Even sorrows are beautiful.

And when you feel

That your whole world is

Falling apart,

Stop;

And

Look.

Maybe things are just

Rearranging themselves.

Dusk on the lone walls of my heart - A Musing.

Saki writes,’ The young have aspirations that never come to pass, the old have reminiscences of what never happened..’

It feels like ages have gone by since I last heard your voice over the phone. It was a goodbye call, laced up with a lot of unsung tears, and unwritten poetries; a goodbye filled with a perfect amalgamation of hurt and love. And nothing has changed since then. The dusk still lights up the barren walls of my room, giving it the same orange shade you loved so much. The wind still blows on cold nights, ringing the wind chime you had gifted me on my birthday. And I sit at the same place every night listening to the songs you used to play on the guitar for me.

Everything has remained still as if the time hasn't moved, except for the fact that you're not around. It's weird how everything is altered and unaltered at the same time. It's like I'm this old lady who can't remember where she placed her glasses and hence everything around her is blurry; everything has silhouettes but not any definite shape. It's a weird middle ground that doesn't feel good.

I wish to remember how your voice sounded like when you were sleepy and how you looked like when you had just returned home after a long day. It's like you're here but I can't see you and that, my friend, is a feeling I don't cherish at all. I'd better be blind than to see a world where you exist only as a dream. I'd better die than wait for things to fall into place. I guess I'm just tired of the games that you've been playing with me; just hand me my glasses will you?

(Picture taken from Pinterest)

Books that shaped me: 02

Milk Teeth by Amrita Mahale

I got this book on my Kindle Account under the 'Prime Reading' section. I had already read a lot of mixed reviews on the book and that instantly made me choose it for reading. Also, the cover of the book was so beautifully illustrated with bright colours on a pale pastel blue backdrop. It made me want to buy a hard cover (and I plan on adding this to my collection sometime in the future) I appreciate books as a whole. Aesthetics is as important for me as the content and hence I'm describing the book in such detail, including the colour schemes and illustrations as well.

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Milk Teeth is Amrita Mahale's debut book about Bombay and how it changed in front of her eyes from the Seventies to the early Nineties. The transformation of Bombay to Mumbai is not only on the economic front but also on the political front, with the hint of communal beliefs and prejudices. Amongst all the change, Bombay still tries to retain its heritage. Mahale has given life to the 'city of dreams' as it can be felt through every page that Bombay/Mumbai is also a character in the novel, going through the turmoils but still trying to look up to the better side of it.

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Asha Nivas is the building where the main protagonist, Ira Kamat has spent all her life. So, when it comes to relocating to a better place, with more space and better living conditions, Ira is faced with a lot of built up emotions in her regarding the place. Asha Nivas, in fact, is a metaphor for the crumbling city of Bombay/ Mumbai.

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This is a story of Karthik Kini and Ira Kamat, two childhood friends who end up being engaged but are trapped in their own past and struggling to deal with the ever changing present.

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The book has dealt with diverse themes but all of them have been woven into a perfect whole. Mahale, for a debut writer, has done an excellent job in portraying a city in such detail even though she has never lived there.

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Cities become cities not because of the rising buildings and better living conditions and more opportunities. It is because of the people we share it with; their eccentricities, their own way of going about in life. A city's heritage is not only because of historical events and the architecture, it is present in the lives of the people who've touched it; lived it. So when a city is constantly striving towards modernization, it always hits the people living in them in a hard way. They're hit by nostalgia and fear that they'll have to let go of the precious things that they've held on to for so many years.

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City dwellers, keen to pass their memories to new generations, go on about their ‘good old days’ and lament the loss of the city’s old charm, now turned to chaos. The new generation, in its quest for change, is in a constant struggle with the older generation’s ideals and values. This aspect has been subtly touched in the novel and we, the unfortunate Millennials would relate to this experience in the truest sense.

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Every story in the novel has been intricately interwoven and portrays the metamorphosis of Mumbai from Bombay. The same metamorphosis is reflected in Ira and Karthik's life. Both of them share a past, with common experiences during their childhood, yet their memories reflect different versions and perspectives of the same incidents. This is an interesting narrative technique to show how their paths diverged over the years. Or, were their paths never meant to coincide in the first place? Well, that's a mystery I leave for the readers to decide for themselves.

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The best part of the novel is the fact that we can actually visualize the places mentioned. I've never been to Mumbai but Mahale's vivid descriptions left me with my sweet imaginations of the place and even made me want to visit the city some time in the future. Another beautiful aspect of the book is the abrupt  ending. I liked how this book had no fairy tale ending and was indeed open ended so you could have room for so many interpretations.

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It's difficult to categorise the book into a definite genre. It's a story of coming of age, love, betrayal, shame, middle-class aspirations, freedom of expression in a liberalized country, casteism, religious intolerance; all put together in a perfect concoction of words. But above all, it's a book about Bombay and Mumbai. Pulsating along through the lives of the individuals that have made this city their home, dreaming a life that they could not fulfil in their own villages and towns.

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A lot of books tend to lose steam as they go towards the ending, but Milk Teeth becomes stronger and more whole as the story approaches the conclusion. Some people might say that the book is long and even I complained while I was reading it but towards the end I realized that there wasn't anything that could be termed as 'extra information'. Everything was important to build up the story. 

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For people, who have lived in and loved a place with all their heart, this book would be a perfect read. I related to it because it felt kind of personal to me. Every page seemed to be a part of my life put on paper by someone else.

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There are a few books that have touched me in the way that Milk Teeth has. It is surely a book that made me feel a myriad of emotions and with it, I feel, I have grown into a better person.

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Note to Readers: I took my own sweet time to finish this, it's one of the best books I've read. It is highly recommended :)

All in all, it is a  tremendously beautiful and promising debut and a must read.

Also, do you like to read books on cities or places in particular or the city/place being a major contribution to the plot? Have you read any? Please leave me some suggestions!

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Thanks for reading!