The snails had it coming. Those breathing holes were far too generous, by my call anyway..

i adorned stealth, and focus. and sashayed through the african grass. knees met with swift sharp blades. i had intended to finish what i had begun. i had a promise to keep. with deep set eyes, and my hands armed, and ready to charge. it was the time of the sun. i felt a sweat bead roll down the back of my neck. it wasn't the first. but there were many. my eyebrows squinted in the heat. there was no ulterior motive. things had never been this real. things had never really been at all. i felt the distant grass disappear. it blended in with the rays. not a sound to the left. not sight to the right. there would be questions later. and there would be answers i could not give. a gentle breeze blew past my side. my hair tight up in a ponytail. a messy one, it had become. but there was more to fix out there, than just my hair. the hair could wait. but this couldn't. i'd thought about this breeze before. it was different from what i knew. more... epic. the sharp african summer gave fire to my flesh. and there it was. i saw him. he saw me. he sat pensive on the edge. i waited. we'd been here before. but this was it. i knew it. the breeze giving him flair. and fueling the feel of it all. i drifted smoothly. and took him by the hands. i was there. and he was there. i had dreamt of it for so long. it felt unreal. but so right. i had won. and they would never understand.


in the summer of kindergarten, i was in senegal (west africa). in class we were raising fat green caterpillers. and every kid in class had a pet at home. i asked my parents to settle for a pet. they said no. the next day, i spent my afternoon class hunting for grasshoppers in the football field.

Chodd Do Anchal

me da cuenta que aun no me crees.
hay algun rincon
del calle
que nos llamaras
eras mas que nada
pero que poco de ayudan
el amor que existe
en el fondo
del almohado
amarillo
ayayayay.
te lo juro mi vida
regresare pronto
cuando puedo
:( :| :S :| :S :P :D XD
y porque ne me prometas?
que raticos tenemos?
no hay dolor, hijo
y y y, dime como
fueron los examines
el tersero lo que harias
pero no
tengo calma
sin futuro
pero siento mejor
hasta





-osea... basta.

Bijli Giraade, Meri Raani

i need less of your spine this time,
bit more of your past life
don't fake balls to me today
it won't fetch applause
your smirk suits your lips
matching your cautious sips
divine, is what they'd say
don't you
your jump for the conclusion
deep triumph hangs with the abysmal
i tip you into toeing
you brag of steady balance
snails get the full ride
they're smart and easy to kill
my goals were fine, sir
till you came along
fuddu saala.

Dearest Antoni, It's Not You-- It's Me

it was that age when fire hits
not a day over sixteen
i held you in my arms that day
not knowing what it'd mean
it was casual, it was perfect
and you didn't seem to mind
you gave me rose tinted shades
and rendered me so blind

i really did love you,
i still do, and always will.

i was too young to fully see you
but too old to not at all
there was no reason not too
and no break before the fall
i knew you'd never leave
so i ignored the time
you knew i'd come back
ignoring reason&rhyme


i clung to all i thought would drift
and i never thought of you
you gave me time, i gave you space
but all of it fell through
i want to come back, i know it well
but i need you to know it too
i don't think i love you anymore
but i need to feel it too
i tried to sort things out at times
but sadly fail to clarify

i said that i'd come visit
i still will, or at least try.

you were never distant.
you were far, but never so.
i thought you'd always stay
so it wouldn't hurt to go
time and distance, we predicted
but what came forth we never saw
and it's been strange, ever since
because i still can't seem to draw
i barely you knew you then
i barely know you now
but i don't love you anymore
which makes it more than just a vow

i said i'd come to visit
and i meant it; i still do.

i think about the family
the one i said i'd visit
your street, pets, and scenes
the romance made it fit
i don't know how you're doing
i don't know if you're the same
you were never all there was
and i was never the only one
pero antes de ir por el almohado
tengo que pedirte el perdon

no necesitas salvacion, yo se
aunque podria yo, tal vez

god knows what's been done to you
god knows what's been to me
i know you know i'll do as i say
and the knowledge sets me free
what i knew back then was nothing
what i know now does not suffice
i may forget you until then
but i will have loved you twice.

de verdad,
la chica que prometio

A Streetcar Named Desire

I got my activa today! :D It's shiny. &black. &I'm naming it Stella.

diagnosis

the disease without a cure
had an honor to its name
what was flawed? what is pure?
it is no longer the same

they are tempted to mature
to never think, but emulate
there will never be a cure
so watch the kids hallucinate

the glass menagerie shall break
only sharp fragments to survive
without knowing what's at steak
the kids prepare for the shallow dive

they serve to treat the symptoms
but never see the cause
we watch the fight run out of victims
victims run out of petty flaws

the disease without a cure
had an honor to its name
what was flawed is now pure
but somehow feels the same

no conclusion. no regret.

we gawk at the raising prices. our fathers continue to earn. we smile hard enough for the truth to burn. dreams unfulfilled, a voice that couldn't rise. i stare unpleasantly at our infamous compromise. i stir what is stale. in hopes of a surprise. you let things simmer, for stability is your prize.

lungs inflate. pupils dilate. our blood begins to thin. as heads begin to spin. so slightly...ever so lightly... we start to relax. and become we used to be. before the sugar. the hops. and the nicotine.

eyebrows arch inward as your voice begins to fray. eyes dipped in denial squint and turn away. because secrets were not allowed. we judge each other for things we swore we never would. one promise at a time, our bond begins to break. this was not supposed to happen. there lies too much at steak. we grab bottles and sink into songs lyrically vacant and obnoxiously loud. our wavering troubles are to stay. our faces meant to blend within the crowd.

heads tilted into silence, we tell ourselves it's not that bad.

mannequins and coitus

nails dig into flesh as silence seeps in. bones wrapped in muscle wrestle for the sigh of instant gratification. in the back of a barn. in inexpensive hotel suites. in janitor's closets. against the wall. on floral princess sheets. under ceiling posters of celebrities. boys become men, and make girls feel like women.

somewhere right now, grown ups are discussing the accelerated sex drive of my generation. there is discontent. there is disapproval. there is no solution. separated by an element as abstract as time, the enemy begins to drift. more lies. more confusion. more stress. more sex. more lies. the enemy continues to drift.

i giggle sometimes when i flip through the channels and encounter motifs of the 80s. i scoff condescendingly at the holistic inferiority of the times that have passed, and resume my routine. my time is more advanced. birth control is advertised at a larger scale. girls are wearing less clothes. lines are crossed, and limits pushed. there are prudes. and there are sluts. there are gentlemen. there are bastards. i am there as well.

they whine if their chairs aren't pulled out for them. if their doors aren't opened for them. and then they whine that they are not taken seriously. they demand respect. they then proceed to show why they do not merit it. cottony soft dolls stand in line for a robocop exterior.

they're in love with the grunts, the sweat, the energy. it is a prize. they want to touch it. but they don't want to get dirty. they'll admire from afar. dream. try. ploy. proceed. play. and the moment they lose the lead, the prize is flawed. and they wish to spare themselves the contamination. the peacock must strut full throttle.

they are afraid of losing us. they yell. they are afraid of the unknown. they bombard us with what they know. they choke us with their warmth. speechless and possessive. our firm skinned hands rest in their wrinkled ones. the minute hand does its job.

we are an army of mannequins cloaked in hormones. drowning in the false advertising that floods our habitat. we are plagued with vanity. we are plagued with superiority. denial. and enough  problems to wound our future fetuses. and enough treasures to trick them into believing that the universe is in their favor.

last sunday

numb. my hands. my feet. my eyes. my ears. there is no word that could better describe my feelings about my body parts, the weather, the venue or my response to the situation. i rub my hands together for warmth. i try to find the perfect posture for my legs, since they are terribly bruised from my recent staircase injury. as i shift my left leg slightly forward, i feel like yelping in pain. in less than a second's time frame, a very distant and equally overweight aunt of mine manages to sit on my foot. i squirm helplessly as she breaks into her "just right" posture, ignoring my foot. would it be rude if i point it out? i stop fighting it. my foot is underneath a fat woman's derrière. and the hymns begin. great. now i really can't point it out. it's like a social sin to say anything non-hymn related during a hymn. i'm stuck. on second thought, winters do drive you to a point where any contact with a heat source is considered a blessing. my blessing comes in the form of an old derrière.

the hymn ends. i fiddle with one end of my turquoise dupatta and start to dread the drawbacks of handling traditional clothing while a toddler whose name i don't know/once knew/is not worth remembering runs over the other end of my dupatta screaming the words to "Sheela Ki Jawani". The toddler is male, under 5 yrs of age, partially toothless thanks to a playground injury and seems to forget most of the lyrics except for the line "I'm too sexy for you", which he seems to be extremely proud of remembering and repeats the line over and over. i wish somebody could make him understand that these are not the songs you sing at this age. and certainly not the kind you sing at funerals.

i ask my mother the reason behind today's ceremony. she wipes her tears dry and says "in our culture it is believed that the soul wanders around for about 11 days after it escapes the body. since today marks the last day of the soul's supposed presence, we call a priest to conduct the proper rituals to ensure that the soul leaves without any... baggage." i stare at the dozens of boxes of sweets. and for a change it is not because i wish to eat them. i stare because a part of me doesn't understand why at this occasion we care to distribute sweets. till this day i had always associated such actions with occasion of celebration or auspicious value. when i ask my mother why we do so, i can see the little girl within her asking me the same. she says "i don't like it either" and pinches the bridge of her nose trying to refrain from crying. she wouldn't be the first in our culture to follow rituals and traditions without any power to oppose them or even give her two cents on the matter.

i find reasons to stare at things at ground level because i don't want to look up. my eyes trace the carpet design. it is nothing special. i scan the room for the hundredth time. i see sad faces of neighbors. i see tears running down cheeks. i see women sob. i see a settled daughter. and settled son. what i see are the life earnings of a seventy five year old man, who now can only be captured in anecdotes and photographs. snippets of conversation float past my ears. they are all the same. "he didn't leave any duty unfulfilled" is what they keep saying. wherever these words are annunciated, heads nod, women sob and men stiffen their upper-lips in attempts to gather composure. crying out rivers and sobbing endlessly, they manage to put on a show. i stare for an abnormal amount of time at practically every person and object in the cold hall full of grievers. i stare at all but one object. i go over and over my head debating whether i am justified for not staring. whether it is alright for me to not cry right now. whether showing tears will make a difference. whether i can postpone the moment for a little while. i cannot. i look up and stare at the photograph that stands on the white sheet. i stare at eyes in the photograph. and my eyes begin to sting. i want my grandfather to walk into the room and take the string of marigold flowers off of the photograph. i want him to open his arms and smile. how else am i supposed to ever feel the warmth of his embrace again if he doesn't?

i can want and want all i want to. but the marigold flowers are there to stay. nobody can bring him back. not even the tone-deaf priest who continues to taint my memory of my grandfather's demise with his off-beat off-key and altogether terribly rehearsed hymns. at this point i'd rather hear the "sheela ki jawani" toddler. like bullets into uncovered flesh, i see the priest's chants hit my mother and her brother like sharp daggers. his words translate to "you build the palace, and take care of your garden. but you were always meant to leave//your once golden body now dissolves into the dirt. because you were always meant to leave". the priest's lack of tone modulation make the words sound even harsher. but i doubt this was a deliberate effect. my mother, still pinching the bridge of her nose, can no longer keep the sobs inside. all i can do is gently rub her back to remind her that she has more to live for.

as the priest exhausts all the possible methods of repeating the fact that my grandfather is dead, i realize that people have been staring at me. do they want me to cry? do they want me to be strong? do i care about what they want? i give them my ugliest posture. one that exemplifies my extra chin, my fat arms and frizzy temple curls. as i stare at my grandfather's smiling face i think about how he's the last person in the room who'd think i'm ugly. for once in my life i don't feel like conforming to my surroundings. these adults have mood swings. when they walk in, they sob. when they meet my mother, they scream in "pain". when i usher them towards the food arrangements, they ask me what's for dessert. and when my uncle bids them goodbye, they hug and smile. they joke about politicians. they crib about the weather. from time to time, they manage to somehow drag my grandfather into some insignificant anecdote of theirs. it bothers me that they never understood him. even though they had more time to spend with him than i did. these are his brothers. these are his sisters. they come here, complain about the journey, start the waterworks, share a few embraces, eat to their stomachs' content, collect their boxes of sweets, and return to their homes.