When It Rains In Delhi

 

 

The Capitol has a reputation for throwing surprises, every now and then. Be it the self-professed crusaders against corruption or the local weather, Delhi outwits us all.

For some time now, I’ve been struggling with the city maps, travel guides & hotel brochures. All roads lead to the city where it’s raining in the month of March. All roads lead to the city I haven’t been to in years, to shrug off the burden of the vainglorious lost years.

Contrary to popular belief, it never was my political affiliation that kept me grounded then. It certainly never had anything to do with writing maverick-ish columns in regional dailies calling crooks, as ‘crooks’. For all I knew and I cared, there was this girl next door who just wouldn’t let me be somebody else. From Polkadot crop tops to a thick lining of Kohl to designer shoes to her designer cellphone, she was very much like the city unfolding in the evening. Like the political coteries around the South Block, there was an aura of mystique surrounding her.

The 19th day of March it was. Another financial year was ending, we had aged by a year and the job had gotten even more monotonous than it was the previous year. There were no football matches on a weekday & the only respite I had was cozying up to a sumptuous bowl of Pasta that tasted atrocious for anything Italian.

Late at night, it poured. Though expected, it was unusually serene and breezy outside. I could have opened a bottle of the connoisseur’s delight, the Old Monk. The only thing stopping me was somebody running amok on the terrace. The thud was getting more and more audible with every passing minute. Somebody was indeed jumping around on the terrace at this hour in the rain. Not that it was an incredibly stupid idea, but it was also disturbing.

For the sake of a good night’s sleep, I made a quick sprint upstairs to conduct an inquiry in to this nuisance. The shower had gone torrid & the view was even more translucent than it was from the window. After a brief session of peeking, I noticed a figure emerging in the rains. The way she had her hair go down to her shoulders, and by the unintimidated grace of her feet, I had recognized my neighbour, who had chosen to take no offence on my unregistered surveillance.

By the time the rains receded, I had found a reason to keep slogging the city. For all things right and wrong, the ‘Dilwalon Ki Dilli’ is an apt name for the city. In the matters of the heart too, the Capitol has the reputation of throwing surprises.

This is a guest post by Vibhuti Bhusan Routray. V.B. is a PR Advisor, a FC Bayern München Fan, a Columnist, the Convener of the Communications Cell (Odisha Pradesh Congress Committee) and the Founder of Charlie 4 – an initiative for budding EDM artists, among other things.  You can find him on Twitter here, and on Tumblr, here.

The sun shines on my grave

You’re like half-forgotten dreams,
and the perfect colour of night turning to light.

The time of restlessness and recklessness,
when pain is inconsequential and unimportant.

It’s like the moment after the laugh dies on the lips,
or just the beginning of a smile.

The tilt of the head, considering,
when the air is heavy with uncertainty.

I’m like a grave, newly dug open,
with sun shining, like on the first day of summer.

Place roses on my grave, decide now,
or come, lie here with me.

Misfit

I wore rounded shoes on a square tiled floor and tried to avoid the lines but I almost always never won.

I saw the floating cloud, so perfectly suspended like newly washed linen on a hanger, and I played games, made up.

I spoke too quickly, too loudly, always honestly. When no one was around.

I had these great conversations, in my head; with a different person everyday. You see, I quickly changed.

It wasn’t easy making friends, but it was harder still, to keep them. And that was a harsh lesson to learn.

I was not a genius, but I was good at a lot of things. And I found out, good was never enough.

I was neither sad, nor happy; I wasn’t lonely, although often I was alone.

I noticed peculiarities, and stared too long. Maybe, maybe everyone thought that I was finding faults. But I always looked in wonder.

I was a misfit. And I just wanted people to see me for who I was: A girl trying to fit in.

Think of you

I’ll think of you as the stars start to fade,
as the moon wanes

I’ll think of you in half a light,
because you’re all the brightness I need

And when the candle burns out,
the old, wooden, rusty table
will bear witness to the time I thought of you
Used and beaten, like burned with anger

I’ll think of you with a tear in my eye
which will run down my face to meet my smile

And my brooding eyes will face the ceiling,
burning with questions, always burning

Afraid to hold you, afraid to let you go,
even though you’re only in my thoughts
An empty room

I’ll think of you as the dawn breaks,
you’ll rise with the sun

And in my thoughts, you’ll never run away
In my thoughts, there are no footsteps
walking away, for once, filling the empty space

In my thoughts, you decide to stay

Why write?

They asked me why do I write? I kept silent not because I didn’t have an answer but because I had too much to say. I write because I don’t know there is a life possible without it, I write because I don’t know how to live without writing. Because it seems like the most natural thing to do, like my hands were made to hold a pen and rest it on a page and scrawl words across it. Painting the page with ink and shapes. It brings out the best in me. And, it reminds me who I really am; just a girl who wants to write.

This great urge to write; it is both a curse and blessing at once. It’s like a prison with no lock. You’re free and bound at once. A paradox really.
I write because, for me, it’s not a part, but a way of life.
I write because I have to. Because the need is greater than almost everything else. And this need presides over my life.

Write you a letter..

I’ll write you a letter I’ll never send
You’ll never know what is was meant to be
A love letter or all my goodbyes

A crisp white page would have your name
written on top with my favorite ink
And I’ll gently caress it, afraid to read aloud
Tracing the words, imagining your face

I’ll write you this letter that you’ll never see
Just like you went your way,
hardly sparing a careless glance

And I’ll finally write it
and put in a locked closet
where it’ll fade into nothingness
ink fading with everything I felt for you

I’ll write you a letter but you’ll never know
because I’ll realize, all this while it was for me
And as the ink flowed,
I could see how much I needed this

The letter, I’ll keep it with me.

Home

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Home is where someone protects your heart. Where you can wear your heart on the sleeve. Where you laugh louder. Where sadness doesn’t mean fear. Where you have the freedom to enjoy the pain, to cry. Where a hug is never far away. Where you learn what love means, better than any dictionary can teach you. Where you have your own space but no need of hiding.

Home is not a place.
It is a feeling.
Of being free.

100!

100 followers

I started this blog in Feb’ 2012 and less than a year later, here I am. With 100 followers! Thank you to everyone who read, shared, and appreciated my work. A bigger thanks to those who criticized and felt it wasn’t quite great, thank you, you made me better. I know I haven’t really posted as often as I should but I plan to remedy that in this new year of 2013. Wish you the best for 2013.

With love and gratitude
Mahima

Goodbye Little Girl

Click on the image to reach her profile.

Reha made this painting ‘I want to live’. Please click the image to reach her profile.

 

It’s alright now, little girl
you can give up,
we’ll fight your fight
and we’ll win it for you.

Don’t struggle so hard,
we know how brave you are
we know the pain you endured
and nothing in vain
we promise you that.

It’s okay brave soul
go to a better place
the humanity is dead anyway
and we’ll join you in a while
hopefully carrying answers.

And it’s okay angel
You deserve a better place
where beasts and monsters don’t roam,
roam in human disguise.

You gave us a chance,
we see us in you,
we see you in us,
you gave us a chance
to hope for a change.

They called you the fearless one,
the brave soul they said,
but that hardly matters now,
it’s alright now dear sister, mother and daughter
after all, you’re one of us,
and now it’s not just you we fight for,
it is our fight.

And it’s okay angel
You deserve a better place
where beasts and monsters don’t roam,
roam in human disguise.

I hope a heaven for you,
I’ll dream one for you,
where you can finally rest in peace.

I wrote this as the news of her death started coming in, it is my tribute for the girl they called Damini, Amanat, Nirbhaya – The fearless one, the brave heart. For me she was also a  girl who left too soon, and unjustly so. And she deserves to not die in vain.

This poem got published in DNA Mumbai on 31st December’2012:  http://epaper.dnaindia.com/epapermain.aspx?pgNo=9&edcode=820009&eddate=2012-12-31