Superman

It’s not because you can get me back the things I lose,
but because you can make them not necessary any more;
it’s not because you can be at two places at once,
but because I can feel you even when you’re not near;
not because you can speak a million languages,
but because you can speak without the need for one;
not because you look younger with every passing day,
but because you are wise beyond your years;
That is why you are my superman.
And, this is not because I’m madly in love with you
but because you really are a superman!

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Trade-offs : The Economics of Love

I

If only the world’s most brilliant of scientists
could somehow capture the manner the pen glides
on the paper guided by the motion of your hand;
and put that method on sale;
she’d trade all the love poems she’d ever
written in your memory, in ink and in blood, on paper,
on water, on dusty table-tops, on fogged windshields…
to hold her pen your way and for once,
sign your name against hers.

II

If only the world’s most masterful of painters
could somehow capture that same glint
that sparked in your eye the innumerable times
you played a successful prank on her;
and put that painting on sale;
she’d trade all the dreams she’d ever seen, sleeping and
waking, of the future, of the past, as a child, a teen,
of the utmost improbable, of the nearly possible…
to look straight into that glint and for once,
be outshone by your mischievous radiance.

III

If only the world’s most dexterous of engineers
could somehow capture the intonations in your voice
when you sung out loud the songs on your mind,
while your conscious brain was occupied elsewhere…;
and put that audio file on sale;
she’d trade all the sounds that ever fell upon her ear –
from her mother’s lullabies to her first uttered words,
the music of heartbeat to the pattering of rain,
the rustle of leaves to the soft beating
of sunlight against walls and windows…
to fill the void with your voice and for once,
not know any sound in the world, but yours.

IV

If only the world’s most evocative of writers
could somehow capture the deluge of emotions
that ran through her being when she was
going head over heals for you –
the first hug to the first kiss, the holding of
doubtful hands to the perfectly interlocked fingers,
the rendezvous in the coffee shop to the  first dinner
together, to the evening spent in a Lovely restaurant,
and the big-time quarrel on a rainy day;
and put that experience on sale;
she’d trade all her learning – the alphabet, the bachelor’s degree,
the wisdom of past relationships; the stepping stones to success;
the laws of Newton, Heisenberg’s Principle,
the 4 Ps of Marketing, Black-Scholes and Black-Holes;
to go through it all over again, and for once,
end her life by the breath-taking emotion called LOVE.

My lucky star!

People of the world, like me, we wake up every morning, brush and breakfast… and believe we are going about our life making our  presentations, making it to offices in time, picking up kids from schools, running marathons, travelling on trains, planes, cars, trucks, ships, carrying cargo, mail, tourists… dashing to dinner appointments, shrink sessions, PTA meets, blind dates, getting in and out of taxicabs, pushing our way through traffic jams… but if you zoom out a little and look at our trails from up there, you’ll notice that what we are really doing is tracing circles around you… one round at a time.
Because, we are the satellites, asteroids, cosmic dust, but you, my dear, are the star. The difference between me and the other satellites?
It’s just that, unlike all the others, I shine as bright as I can when the light from your eyes falls on me…even if you’re light years away. I’m your moon! And baby, you’re my lucky star!

Lost…and found!

I grow old when I have to,
young, when I want to.
I go to reality school with Sandman,
Cupid and Tooth Fairy.
I spin spiderwebs when I’m bored
and sell them off to art houses.
I run a theater in my attic
and put the actors away when I’ve guests.
I deliver single mothers’ babies on Sundays
and name them after my lost lovers.
I trap sunlight in a fishing net, powder it,
mix it with rock phosphate, alfalfa
and feed it to plants in the cities.
I read moods through people’s lips
and tune the piece of sky overhead
to shades of blue, and seldom white.
I put salt in tears, sugar in kisses,
and pepper…to make you sneeze.
I run into the atmosphere to dig out
precious little oddities lost in time
– like dainty coins dropt out of butter fingers,
gift-wrapped kisses flown towards heedless lovers,
paper rockets cut out of vintage tabloids,
and words – all made of gold.
I send them by post to girls with broken hearts,
with a charming story attached to each curio,
as things lost and found
have a way of restoring faith.

Now 5:30 pm on 17th Feb, 2012:
14th Feb, 2012 marks the second birthday of my blogthis blog. Happy birthday, dear! Also, happy valentines’ day. It was a good day. I’m bursting out of myself with what I’ve lost but found some months ago at such an unlikely place as this.
Sadly, I lost my gold earring screw in someone’s room, a month ago, and haven’t found it yet. This poem, in part, is an ode to that little thing. I hope you find your way back to me, or to someone who needs you more than I.

Gone Case

Into the middle of things, I drive myself daily, and get a bit lost…
Into the midst of your diamond-like words, I push a pebble, and suffer silence.
Into the heart of truth, I send a lie, and die a little.
Into the aura of your presence, I enter, and disappear a little.
Into the bubble of your reality, I squeeze in, and burst at the seams.
Into the light of your being, I step foot, and extinguish a little.
Into you, I am, and I’m gone completely.

Happy 2012 To Me and You and You and You…

I’d long resolved not to put personal detail into any one of these blogposts I occasionally fancy writing. But, the older I grow, the touchier I become and the more lonely…so I cannot help but see this space as a sort of vent to let out those unexpressed personal feelings that torment me to no end for the lack of that unbreakable, inviolable self-control I possessed as a child.

After a long, long time I had gone on this movie watching spree. Credit goes to MI4. I watched it in the movies while I was enjoying my winter break at home recently.  It blew me away completely and made up for a lot of bad things that were bugging my mind since the day I had packed my bags for home. There were good and bad things that I had to go through while at home. All that aside, MI4 helped bring back the memory of the joys of watching movies in my own, private space. How could I not relish it in the last two terms! So, with that hot, throbbing momentum tugging at me, as soon as I got back to this Corporate Slave heaven I watched half a dozen movies on my voiceless laptop (imagine!). It’s no mean feat! No sound, just subtitles. I couldn’t imagine I could ever tolerate that kind of entertainment…it’s like punishment, really, when you think of it. But I did it. And I didn’t feel there was much of a difference. These movies were just as good as with sound. It started with Seducing Mr. Perfect (Korean, 2006). Then I went on to watch Paranormal Activity III on a girls’ night out. Later in my room – American Psycho (English, 2000), Up (Pixar, 2009), Someone Like You (English, 2001), Love and Other Drugs (English, 2010), Rope (Hitchcock, 1948). Then I got into the mood to write something down for the first time in 2012.

The titles that they’d given to the movies and the order in which I watched them, now that I see them in print here, more or less seem to map the moods I’ve been through over the past few weeks. Rope doesn’t fit the bill though…as of now, that is.

The Magic Carpet

I know, that night, lying on our magic carpet
in the quarter-light, floating in our little dorm,
we cared not about those details
that bother when in broad daylight,
we didn’t mind the improprieties
that pinch when in public spaces.

We were sailing close to the wind,
communicating through fingertips,
unknowing the memories that pricked…
We veered through a common dreamspace,
nestled into each others’ chests
and memorized the sounds they made…
Yes, that night I cried, like that bizarre fish
that refills its own pond of water,
copious tears that went over both our heads
and the carpet sank so deep
that all its magic went down with it.