The Thing About Getting Started (Again)

 Don’t get me wrong, the title of this article might confuse you, I started writing when I was five years old, and no, not the holding-a-crayon-and-scribbling-on-a-notepad-writing, but actual writing writing. My mum was in the hospital giving birth to my baby brother at the time, so I wonder if that pushed me into writing about all the things going on in my head (because both parents were too busy with more pressing matters than listening to my incessant stories), but I recall- clear as crystal- taking a few blank sheets of paper, stapling them together, and writing a poem about stars (eponymously titled Stars). But no, that didn’t feel like enough, for I wanted the Stapled Sheets to seem like a proper book. So, in my little girl handwriting, I sharpened my pencil and really got down to it. I wrote this really cool fairytale about a princess that had been cursed into a rose bush by her evil stepmother; she would only regain her human form when a handsome and kind prince plucked a rose from that very bush one day. Of course such a prince eventually appears, plucks the rose and sets her free from the wretched curse, but I didn’t feel the need to write the cliche- they didn’t get married immediately, she merely smiled at him, thanked him with all her heart, and they walked into the sunset together as they talked and talked and talked. The end. And for good measure, on the last page I drew a diamond to make it look grand.

I look back at that book with such pride- my magnum opus, at the ripe old age of five! Not many of us get to stake such claims. Since then, the written word and language in general has been my saving grace, my poison of choice, my refuge when I am lost and confused. No, I am not a writer by profession. Not yet anyway, because I’m certain that I’ll get there at my signature glacial pace one day.

We each have our own skills, and if we’re lucky and self-aware enough, we recognise them before it’s too late. I have a few of my own too, and writing happens to be one of them. I just know that I can arrange whatever word vomit I might have spewing about in my mouth or mind into something coherent. I used to write here on my blog fairly regularly for years, and looking back at it and re-reading so many of these old works feels oddly gratifying. I like myself! I really really do, and not in a horrid narcissistic fashion but in a happy/humble manner that has become very rare in a world ridden by polarities and swinging from here to there like an exhausted pendulum. 

Maybe this will mark my return into the merry world of regular writing. 

Time will tell. 

An Active Exercise In Trying To Feel Better

An active exercise in trying to feel better is to identify the antagonizing thought that's sitting in your head, like a crown of thorns. Put a pin on that thought, highlight it and let it stand out from the rest of the many things you may be thinking about simultaneously. 

Now let's strip it of any adornments that add any glamour or weight to this little bitch. Let's not romanticise what's already painful and/or uncomfortable. What is this thought based on? Is it based on real problems? If yes, then let's identify the problems and create solutions to each of them, one by one. 

If it's based on imaginary issues then let's write them down too, one by one, and prove why they're imaginary and not real. 

Once that is done, and we are faced with nothing but an incident or a sentence or a thought or a fear that has managed to plague our mind for so long, it is easier to fight and defeat this monster. We have objectified it, and facing it now feels far less intimidating. The fear of loss is smaller and more meek. 

For someone who has been afraid of numbers and is infamously a sufferer of dyscalculia, such objectification and numerification of problematic factors is strangely and ironically soothing. Once I see the numbers on the left hand side of the page and I know I have a list to turn to in order to smoothen things out for myself, I feel instantly stronger.

Try it sometime, it works. 

Grateful To Be Alive

So what if the world is 

up in flames

I am quite grateful today

for a roof above my head that

shields me this morning

from this sudden cloudburst

that's drenched my town 

in working-class woes.

I am quite grateful today

for a hot coffee mug

as it warms my hands

that have gone cold off late

with anxious off-handed 

phone scrolling.

I am quite grateful for 

birdsong

despite my terrible ornithophobia

for it is sweeter than

the songs of loss.

I am quite grateful for this 

breath of fresh air from this 

clean, wet, promising morning

because at least it sustains me.

I am alive, much like these

mynah birds on the windowsill,

and I too will fly soon,

but until then, I am just

so, so grateful.

An Ode To My Son

Nobody taught me how to be 

a mother, except you,

my little cherubic child. 

I have learnt on the go,

like a painter flowing free

on a blank canvas-

guided only by impulse and art.

We pluck flowers and blow them

away

as the winds heat up with an 

impending Indian summer,

incubating within the belly of a monster

that I will fight tooth and nail

to keep you safe from,

but life isn't about being safe,

I don't want you to simply survive.

You are a king, my son;

born to rule hearts and lands

but mostly to rule your own destiny

and thrive.

As we sit cross-legged in the grass

today

like two friends with a secret,

I feel the sameness of our souls 

and the congruence of our hearts.

Again a wind blows

and I am filled with peace-

life feels lovely, like a song about

happiness.

A ladybird sits on my knee,

and you laugh;

we try to feed it weeds and twigs,

and I wonder if I have learnt 

exactly how 

to be a mother

because I feel a comfort now

that was missing before-

and I'm sure it comes only

from the love and applause you give me.

I feel like a mother-

my life's greatest victory.

Aspiration

There is something really special

about a couple that has grown old

together.

When you've been through

several summers, winters and storms 

together

and endured- sometimes also shined-

I am obliged to bow in front of them 

with respect and an envious form of 

admiration.

I want to grow old with my husband, too

and draw jealousy from youthful eyes 

when they see the warmth with which

we still hold hands,

and speak our own silent language

that no one else knows.

I want us to sparkle like a rare emerald

at a cocktail party 

that everyone looks at and gasps with awe,

but only the really lucky ones 

get to wear 

on luckier fingers 

that garland their lover's being.

Endurance

Everyone will tell you

that you aren't enough;

you are insignificant and irrelevant-

a fat burden on the shoulders 

of those far more important;

"You ought to be grateful", they say.

But what about those dark nights

when it was your unfaltering flame

that kept their fire burning?

What about those times

when your trembling hands

held this house of cards

and kept it from crashing?

And what about the day 

when you bled copiously

so they could sleep on a bed of roses?

People forget the worth

of those who don't often announce it.

This world and this age 

have no regard for humility.

The graceful must live 

in a dark cage of silence. 

Lonesome

There was once a day

When we sat in the October sun.

You played with my hair

Like it was a violin string;

And I stared at your face

Like it was my homeland-

Your lips announced my existence

And your eyes decided the shape

Of my body.

Our hands were entwined 

Into a serpentine belt of 

Oneness. 

You held my dreams,

And I held your reality.

But the sun doesn't shine forever,

And October eventually melts away;

And today, all I'm left yearning for 

Is not poetry, is not the temperance

Of your everyday kisses,

It is you, in your opaque entirety.

Because I do not yet know how 

To not be loved by you,

And if I have my way, 

I'd prefer never to learn.