It’s a Sunday afternoon. The old forest is your latest hiding place. You run deep into the woods, where the riverbed smells like dreams, you don’t dare sharing. The dreams that didn’t know where else to flow. You wonder if forests know what their breathing does to your wounds, or how often you turn to them. How much you have already forgotten, and how many years you would have gained, if you were more like them – the big, old burly trees. You like to think of forests as a poem written by you centuries ago. Your favorite part is ‘a bird looking for a gentle tree to rest.’ And hers is ‘a tree quietly looking for lost birds who wish to be held.’
I’ve been dipping my words in hot coffee & purple ink, Since I know you like to warm your heart into them. I’ve been dragging my bones over the skin of these pages, Because I wanted to write you poems like I was really there. I wanted to touch the spines of books on your shelves, And ask you if you could feel the shiver. I was sifting what’s left of this stardust of memories, and I can promise you my greatest work is yet to come. It’s when the silver bones of my mind, will be polished down to the silence of snow on paper. It’s true, When writers love, the planet does spin a bit slower. It lends us time to turn all our quietness into words.
I began this day as I do most days, Pouring coffee over the plants in my head. Filtered pictures with a #throwback, Make me yearn for places outside the window pane. But I have reached the rock bottom, The social tells me I can’t scroll no more. A tall, sturdy tree is who I have become. Mourning the mundane work from home. The seasons blend in the background, as I’m glued to yet another meeting invite. With another tall, sturdy tree on a Zoom call. Is this how the lonely forests are born?
Have you jumped over dried summer leaves, Just to savor the symphony of crushing sounds? Have you bunked enough classes, Or were thrown out of them with your buddies? Have you lied to your crush that it’s not your bus, Just to steal an extra hour of waiting together? Have you walked home with your best friend, Balancing your feet on the tracks that disappear in a tunnel of trees? Then consulted a stray kitten, about the hint of rain trailing the changing wind? Have you chatted up with your roommie about times like these, And had a Deja Vu that you’ve had the same conversation before?
“Sure,” she turned around and let him join her at the bar counter.
He ordered a drink. With a side glance, he watched her askance.
She was nodding her head to the tune of some song and was humming along with it .
She stirred her drink and smiled a little. She was conscious of him looking at her.
“You like The Smiths? They’re one of my favorites,” she lowered her head as she spoke.
“Yup. I like them,” He replied.
“And I like this time, specially.”
“What, 10 pm?” she had her eyebrows raised.
“No. The 80s.”
“Because it was the best time.”
“Was? Hmm…” she looked at him from head to toe as if to study him and asked again, “Why so?”
“Well. You know, the rock music. People becoming more open-minded. Technology was changing. TVs and later, computers coming in…, and there was some innocence in these times” he scratched his head and continued speaking.
“In 90s, we had FRIENDS as well.”
“Well, that’s true. But then, no Facebook, Instagram or Snapchat. No Twitter,” she responded.
“No virus pandemics either.” He completed.
“Wait a minute! How do you know about the social apps from the future?” He said with a surprised look.
“Well, you think you’re only one who can travel?” Her left eyebrow went up and down like a wave.
He smiled and the edges of their glasses kissed.
“I didn’t’ ask. What’s your favorite time?” He turned his chair to face hers.
“2040s.” she answered instantly.
“2040! Wow. I don’t get it. I keep coming back here for the love of simplicity and the tranquility of this time.”
“Why 2040s?” He stared at her.
“You’ll know.” She smiled and gulped down her drink.
He pondered over that for a minute before turning back to her.
“I do not see how a girl from the 80s be in love with 2040s. I mean I live in 2020. And It’s terrible.
I can only imagine how 2040…”
“It’s beautiful,” she interrupted. “And I like it precisely for the same reasons that you keep coming here for.”
“For ‘the simplicity of…?’ I don’t get it how 2040s can be beautiful.”
“Yup.” She stared at him for a few seconds before speaking. “It’s a different kind of beautiful to be honest.”
“Tell me more. I don’t think I can wait for ten long years to figure it out.” They both had pulled the chairs closer as he spoke.
“Ever heard of post-apocalyptic world?” She said.
“You mean there’s been a world war? The world’s come crushing down?” he almost kept his drink away.
“When was the last time the world was not crushing apart, eh?” she retorted.
“Agreed,” he said, still impatient to hear more.
She could sense his curiosity and decided to push him a bit more.
“Shots?” she tapped her fingers on the bar table and looked at him for an answer.
“I’m not getting more out of you that easily, am I?”
“Nope!” Her cheek sported dimples as she giggled.
He couldn’t miss them.
The shots were ordered.
“The 2040s isn’t perfect. But it’s closest to what we have imagined of going back to creating a perfect world.” She spoke while licking the aftertaste of vodka off her lips.
He rested his right elbow on the table and gave her all his attention.
She went on speaking as if on a momentum.
“The 2040s are changed times. Third-world-war means that we have pretty much damaged the painting of the world map. The technology has sunken deep into the black sea. The phone lines are dead. The internet is a distant dream. But owing to our character of adaptation, those who managed to make it through the night have learnt to survive under the new Sun. For the time that’s on our hands that is. It is in a way a utopian dream for us lovers and the artists. The borders have been smudged. Who is the refuge and who owns the burnt lands is a question as orphan as the small faces around.”
“Tell me more.” He was all ears.
“What do you want to know?”
“Are people still fighting? Is living in the mountains back?” His questions were almost ready.
“The gunshots behind the mountains are slowly fading out. People have gathered from the lands afar and speak the common language of survival. Because what better than to swim together in the waters today that could drown us tomorrow? We light these little campfires in the corners of the lakes and sing the songs we thought we never will.”
“We? You mean you have friends?”
“Well, I did meet someone. He was singing this Bob Dylan song…” she snapped her fingers as if trying to recall something.
“Blowing in the wind?” he said rather confidently.
“Yes” she said cheerfully.
“He was humming that song while we sat there, and I warmed my hands at the flame. That’s my favorite memory from it.”
“That…that sounds interesting,” he replied while slowly getting lost in his thoughts.
She circled her forefinger around the edges of her glass and looked at him.
“What are you thinking?” She probed him.
“I’m thinking that I’ll be quite old by that time and you’ll probably come around.” He said getting up.
“Maybe you’ll have gray hair and all the wisdom of past years. Maybe you’ll sing me a song.”
He looked at her for a moment and said, “Maybe.”
They both wore their biggest smiles of that night.
He checked his watch and said, “I so want to ask you for your number. But you guys don’t have them yet, do you?”
“Don’t worry. You don’t need to exchange numbers when you have the same hiding place.”
The year is 2030. There is a new airport called ‘An Egress’. It’s the same place from where I had boarded a small spaceship into the galaxies to look for a new home. Writing this letter to you from a thousand light years away. You must’ve been worried that you did not hear from me for long. That’s because, Sometimes the mammoth space tosses the bottled love letters all the way up to the moons. I do have a good news though. Yesterday, I found what could be our new home. It’s near Titan, the moon orbiting the Saturn. Our new planet is strange. It has violet skies and frozen lakes. It is hauntingly beautiful. The trees grow wild here and the roads aren’t paved. The days are short and the nights are eerily silent – Like a flower with a hand grenade. I wish I could tell you stories of all the planets I fell in love with. Of all the homes they made inside me. Of all the languages I did not know I could speak. I remember you saying once that we often fall in love with unrequited things. Like me thinking the universe will love us back, but I know she has too many other galaxies burning in her hands. We are but tiny specs hoping for her to return our call. Earth was a beautiful dream, the one that we dreamt collectively & ruined with our hands. I hope once we all depart her, she’ll grow little trees in spaces we should have watered. Afterall, she’s someone who’s seen a thousand summers and loved us with all the rage of the sea. We may travel to every universe, but we’ll belong to her in all of them.
I have had a recurring dream. It starts with me waking up at the break of purple dawn, my favorite time of day. I have always loved this city, at this hour, when it is still sound asleep. I can look at it through my window for hours. I have. I can hear it breathe and think of myself as an actor in one of its countless dreams.
In my dream, I see myself getting up and leaving the house wearing my night pajamas and a camera slinging across my shoulder. I think I’m headed down to Powai lake. I’m not so sure.
I am walking down the building. It’s the same old place that I had called ‘home’ for years. As I come around the end of stairs, the child in me goes for a jump and skips the last two steps. I say Hello to the security person who looks like he’s just taken over the shift from the night guard. I walk outside and take a deep breathe in. It feels as real as a dream can get.
The society gate has just been opened to the new day. Delivery boys are rushing in with renewed hopes. Oreo, my favorite dog wags his tail and I pet him saying, “good boy!” I look at my favorite couple – a huge tree and a bench sitting beside her. I smile at the thought of all the memories I’ve trusted them with. I’d like to think that they smile back.
I stroll down the loveliest of all streets, one that changes view with my every footstep. It looks perfect for our chance encounters, for our surrealism to merge into our reality.
I see myself hopping onto a local train and share a greeting with a new stranger for the day. The familiar voice from the train announcement gives everyone enough comfort for the day. I stand near the train door and let the wind flirt with my hair.
Blink of an eye and I’m sitting at Prithvi café. I fold the sleeves of my shirt all the way up to my elbows and feel proud at being surrounded by art connoisseurs. I wonder how many of them will later remember the moment they’re sharing right now. Sun beam escapes through the crevices of tree branches above and my eyelids close in.
I open my eyes and find myself playing with the strap of my office shoulder bag. My colleague stares at me like she’s seen a ghost and wears the expression of ‘what the hell I’m waiting for’ on her face. I walk inside the place that’s going to be more than a workplace. Few known faces turn around to say Hi.
With my heart overwhelmed with a pleasant feeling, I find myself in a cab on the way back home. I get down near Powai and walk towards a café at the corner. ‘Aromas’ it says. I keep looking at the place and a man sitting at the table outside turns around. I see myself holding a cup of Americano and with dreams for lifetime in eyes. He shakes his head looking at me and retreats into the conversation.
I think I hear someone calling out my name. I turn around and I’m blinded by sunlight breaking through. With my half-shut eyes, I think I see you across the street. I reach out to you, but I can’t move. My pockets are full of stones. You stare at me from distance and the syllable of your laughter fills the sky. It is mixed with a deafening alarm tune of my clock.
I see myself spiraling skywards. You look up and wave me goodbye. I wave back to my favorite city.
Disclaimer: this blog post smells like a pile of shit.
What do you call an asshole with wings?
Hint: it starts with P.
Nope. Not me. I don’t have wings.
It’s the Pigeon.
Yeah, that multicolored, evil specie from the kingdom of birds that keeps spying on the windows in your house.
The first time I saw pigeons closely was when I was in school. My elder sister had taken me to a place nearby our house where a man used to look after a large group of pigeons. I saw that the flock had several grey birds along with one lone white bird – apparently a female. That was my first introduction to how much men in our country must compete for a woman. The man made some weird sounds and pigeons flew around and came back. “So, what are you thinking young man?” He asked me with the tone of being extremely proud over his pigeon-control skills. “Do they come back to shit here, or do they shit here to fly around?” I replied. My sister held my hand tight and took me away.
That question went answered for a long time, rather many years. I grew up watching pigeons take over the country little by little. I saw people outside temples feed them. I saw Bollywood actors dance around them. Being an animal lover, I always loved observing minute details about bird and animals. I noticed it rather early how pigeons were so much unlike their friends from the bird family. During 90s, I saw that the mighty kites, tiny sparrows and even middle-class crows were buying a house for themselves on trees in their locality. But not the pigeons. Nope. They were just keeping an eye on humans and their houses. They were basically intruders who were making a room for themselves in buildings and houses instead of trees. Maybe they’re the rentless innkeepers in Barney Stinson’s words. Or maybe the other birds did not like them. Or maybe pigeons realized that humans are stupid and would let them stay rent free in exchange for a giant pile of poop. You open a window, stroll into your balcony or just peep outside – they were ubiquitous. And so was their shit.
By now, I had learnt three things about pigeons. One, they were horny all the time and had some target to keep up with. Maybe they were all part of this huge multinational pyramid scheme that demanded them to make x number of eggs on a quarterly basis. Second, maybe Devil was the CEO of their organization.He must have been paying them dividend every time they capture a new locality and spread their genes around. And third, they had skipped Darwin’s evolution and decided to stay as disgusting flying fucks over the time immemorial.
Lately, I went out to buy some groceries during the lockdown period and what I saw was anything but surprising. A large ground nearby was full of pigeons as they fed on and left no stone unturned with their grey-white souvenirs. I finally got the answer to my question from the childhood.
They shit around to fly around and fly around to shit around!