The magician that is me

I already knew I was a magician,
When they started tying me up!

I was not worried. Not one bit!
Although I never performed this particular trick before,
I knew I was no less than magician Houdini, himself.
They tied my hands and legs
Wrapped the rope a few times around my waist
They checked the knots by pulling each one a few times.
Everything was according to plan.
We were all prepared for the box trick.


I did not think twice before agreeing to be thrown in the water.
Oh yes! I was of course put in a box before that.
An intricately designed box.
One look and you would have fallen in love!
A box that fitted my size. Well..almost!
I had to curl up my legs a bit though.
I did not mind it!
The posture only added to my beauty.
I fitted the box perfectly in that position.


Not that there was no "guarding"
You know that surgical term, don't you?
"It is a sign deliberately elicited by palpitating the abdomen".
If you have a leaking ulcer, you tighten your stomach
I did that too! I winced!

Not sure they noticed it 'though.
Were they supposed to?
They were not surgeons after all.
But then, were they not?!

As the box got closed and thrown in the water
Water seeped in from the hinges.
It surprised me with its bitter coldness
My skin went numb..
That was not how it was to be, I thought!
I was told otherwise. 
I was assured that Bay of Bengal is never so cold.
I was even asked to expect a welcome warmth.
It confused me but I knew in my heart of heart ...
This was not the water I was promised.
It was not my bay.
I was not supposed to be there, in that water.
I knew it right from the beginning.

But then I already had that beautiful position to hold,

I also had the most wonderful box.
And do not forget the ropes and the knots.
They were all there to secure my current position,
Which was right at the bottom of the ocean.
The very bottom.
I secured it with all that was there of me.

But I was the original magician, you remember?
I would have been able to get out any time I wanted.
You don't? I don't blame you actually.
It even became difficult for me, after a point.
I swear I remembered every trick, 
Every spell, each twist of hand.
I remembered it all, when I began telling you the story.
Now I am not so sure anymore. 
I am losing it all now and losing it fast.
Almost as fast as the oxygen in the box.

My legs hurt in that curled up position.
My fingers are going numb from the cold.
I am looking for my wand desperately,
I fear, even if I find it now,
I may not be able to wield it again. 
Oh! my head will soon stop working
I need my magic right at this moment!
It has to work!
I was the magician to begin with!
I am the magician after all!
Am I not?

Freedom

Freedom comes in all forms, shapes and sizes

It comes in large packages against a bundle of collateral
And in small installments, with surprising intensity.

There is no way you can ignore them when they arrive. 

It may catch you unaware some time

but may also take years of hard work to get there.

It takes you out of some boxes, 
Only to put you in others.

Unless you keep an eye on it, 
Freedom, itself turns into bondage.

There is a kind of freedom that comes early on.

With the knowledge that you are not beautiful.

You are then liberated from even trying to be one.

You can laugh out loud and look lousy in photographs.

You can break those lines of your face,

They are not perfect anyway. 

No one was looking for a pretty face there!

You are free from lipsticks and mascara

You can travel with a toothbrush in your bag.

The flip side?

You feel you must pull out your necklace and hide it,

Even before you reach the last step of the staircase.

And you often forget to pack the comb!

A kind of freedom hurts you so much that you wonder

Is this something you really wanted?

You stand alone in the crossroads,
with bloodied knees and bruised elbows,

As the crowd gathers around you and says

"You are free!", they say, "Finally!"

You try to believe the finality in their voices,
With all sincerity.

And then, late at night, 
Walk back looking for a new bondage in every street corner.

Another kind of freedom is needed!

Because it is the call of the hour.

Because it is not a good idea to not to be free.

Because we must shed all that symbolizes the chain.

Because free is the way to be.
Or because....whatever!

So what the pull leaves you lacerated?

So what you wanted to cling like the mother to her baby?

Be free! You know it is the right thing to do.

What! You are still undecided about that!

Then there is that kind of freedom that is hard earned 

At times after years of struggle.

And this kind is never final.

You do not have the assurance that it is there,

Unless you guard it like a jealous lover.

It is not a destination...

But once you find it, there is no going back.

You practice it every day.

Like that young boy who strains his voice,
To match the notes of a new-found song.

You try hard to hear that heart beat and sing at the same time.

It burns on your tongue, gives you head ache,

And leaves you sleepless for nights.

But you love it all the same.

This freedom is lived each moment.

You live it by the way you walk, talk, laugh and cry.

The way you tell your head to not to fall in line.

"That is not why you have been born", you tell yourself.

It is the way you still practice questioning, everyday. 

This freedom asks you to push the bar a bit more every day...

And you oblige.

The Silver-Line Painter

The Silver-line painter is on leave today
He has decided not to wake up til noon, 
That is, at least.
And its already very late!
Do not knock the door, he instructed. 
No tea for him, please!
He will not need  a shower this morning.

The cloud is nervous to venture out.
Isnt he irresponsible? This silver-line painter!?
It is ridiculous that he refuses to do his job any more!
What does he think of himself!
the cloud muses....
What if nobody looks at her?
What if her beautiful form gets completely missed without those lines?
All these just because a painter changes his mind on fine morning!
Why?! She could not fathom. 

"Not that I care", she thought to herself.
"Well! I have never cared for what anyone thought about my looks. Ever"
She said, while checking her reflections in the slender mirror of the river.
She pinched her knotted brows apart.
The situation is creating more stress than she thought it would.
Are the lines really that important?
The dark skin gets darker with the shadow of her worries.
She looks even more beautiful!

The painter tosses and turns, 
Wakes up and sleeps again.
The bed seems his tomb for the day.
A tomb covered with grass
The cold, green grass that he longed for
And probably the dew drops too....
No! of course not the dew drops!
Are you out of your mind!?
Isn't it enough that he can laze in the grass, finally?

The painter contemplated a change in profession, half asleep.
As he was not fully awake, he was still allowed a dream,
And could still avoid being called a day-dreamer!
"May be a cook, what say!"
"I can then take refuge in a warm kitchen
A kitchen with a solid roof and no windows.
I will keep it lighted, myself.
The cloud can find me no more.
But then the air will also not find me, right?"


"Can I be a pot-maker, instead?", he thought. 
It can not be too different from being a painter.
"I drew beautiful, bright lines anyway", he thought
The pots that will hold the dew drops of my dreams and turn them into precious water and help me survive", he murmured.
But will the cloud agree? Will she make way?
Will she budge?

The day begins to end..
The cloud continues to sit right above the painter's head,
She has no plan to budge!
She waits for another day, patiently.
For the mood to change. 
For the painter to agree again to go back to his job...
Her form can not be compromised!
The lines have to be drawn.

The painter begins to worry
It seems the day would end in rain!

Intriguing words

Words have intrigued me forever

Words, that are immensely powerful
And intensely weak
Words, that make you who you are
And then fail you when you need them the most.

Words at times are like those people
Who do not let you get near them.
At least not until they test and try you a bit.
They stay away, remain elusive, act tough,
Until you start flowing in their veins.
Or till you know them so much
That they start growing roots in each part of your body. 

Whenever I find a lyrical new word
I play with it for hours...
Like an insistent lover I keep going back to her
Every time with a new proposal.
"How about this?" I ask.
At times she obliges me with a smile
At others, she does not even budge.

To tell you the truth..
I have accepted defeat many times
That is if you can call that a defeat.
For they say, nothing is never lost in love.
Then I never went back to her for days
I did not for years, once.

I tell you, it is then....
And do trust me on that, she misses me.
She misses me so much that she fills my dreams to the last bit,
Makes me restless and forlorn
She calls me till the time I can think of nothing but her.

Then again, words love to be my foe
("Raqeeb" they say in Urdu)
They leave me even before I understand them fully
And leave me gaping when they reach my own ears
Forget the poor human on the other side of it!
On those days I hate words!

But when I think
It was words which could ask you
"Keep my stars shining!"
We make up. We stop fighting.
They then become my closest confidant.
"Never let the stars down" they told you.
"Will you hold them till I return?" they asked.

Its only words that has helped me keep going...
"Some day"..I said...

"I will see my reflection in them".

Hand on loan

Hand on loan

............................

On some nights I get a hand on loan.
Only on some nights that is....

I lie holding it and dream of butterflies
The butterflies that bring color and
Carry sunshine on their wings.

The butterflies I met in the

tropical mountains of Taman Negara

The sharp drops did not bother me anymore. 

On some nights I kiss the loaned palm

I work on the creases a bit 

Rub them with my thumb

And try to smooth away the roughness. 

But the darkness only thickens....

I lie on it and try to hear the calling of the sea
For, they say, every dessert was a sea in its last birth.

On some nights when a hand is loaned to me....
I try to forget it’s on loan

I ignore that it’s not a hand that I know too well

Because knowing has not taken me too far
I hold it with all eagerness
As if it will walk the whole nine yards with me

The whole nine yards and only one hand on loan.

That’s all from here for now…