My Divine

When blamed of beauty, you guise, guiltily by,
Vain becomes you, yet, you proudly shine,
Your words, pithy, your gaze fleeting,
Float on, idol, divine.
And I will worship the ground,
Upon which your soles, barely linger.


I look over gently,
From your skin to your soul.
Unveiling splendor,
like you, there were never more.
Beauty now prevails, defined ,
impeaching you of thievery, deceit, undue.
And yet I worship the ground,
Upon which your soles, barely linger.


Your presence haunts my fragility, my heart,
Silence looms as my body weeps,
Overwhelmed by your beauty, revered,
I only stare, I stare.

I look away quickly, yielding to worth,
And then I bow, beneath my heart,
And I worship the ground and I worship again,
And I worship again and I worship some more


Morning chirps, breezily by, and
though golden treasures adorn your life.
Your eyes twinkle the deceit of night last,
You were conquered, sold, bought and lost.
Tarnished my love, only tatters remain,
Of your life and your worth, of you, divine.
Yet I worship, with sordid grief,
And yet In that pain, I dwell dutifully, weak.


With reborn hope, I look upon your deeds,
If they could have you, it could, just once, be me,
I would hold you tender, un-break your stupor,
Your warm skin would boil, for me,
Your hairs would rise, your heart would thunder,
Your body would weep, all for me.

But as I would touch you, your precious lips,
Would part in anguish, in protest, in pain,
As tears would flood, your burning face,
I would know my burden was nothing as great.

And soon I would wake, and find me unworthy,
and soon I would sigh, and look away,
And soon you would leave, and break my heart,
Though soon, I would lie and be content.


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When accused of being beautiful, you look away guilty. You are vain and that brings you pride. You are superior and speak less. Your words aren’t wasted, just like your gaze isn’t. you never give more than what’s needed, in fact you are meager with wasting your looks to common eyes. You are divine. I worship the ground which your feet barely touch.

I sneak a peek at you, so you won’t notice me and turn away. Your skin and soul define a kind of beauty that never before prevailed on earth. You are accused of stealing beauty, deceiving people somehow. And yet, I still cannot help but worship and kiss the ground you walk upon.

Your presence sends my fragile heart into over drive. Silence rings in my ears as my body starts to sweat (weep). I am so overwhelmed by your holy beauty that I can only stare.
But I realize my worth quickly. I am not worthy enough to keep looking at you. And so I bow down as low as I can. Lower than my pride allows me and lower for my love, as it calls. I bow and I worship you.

As morning awakes, your life illuminated by sunlight. Though It’s decorating you in all the riches it can offer, still holding you as an idol of divinity, your beautiful twinkling eyes reveal your truth. You have been unfaithful to my devotion, philandering with evil, you were like a prostitute for the vices of life. You have been discarded, torn and tattered. But I still worship you, though now with filthy sorrow. I still remain loyal and though weak with self loathing, I still wait for you painfully.

But as I think and ponder on your actions. I question my position. If every vice has had a go at you, if nothing substantial of you remains why can’t I have you? I would hold you softly, yet with passion. I would be the one for whom your blood would boil, the one to give you the shivers of excitement. Your heart would pace and your body would sweat. All this for me.

But, as I touch you precious lips, I can see the anguish on your face. You are in pain, being taken by me. you cry to be free you weep in the pain that my presence has brought upon you. It is then that I know that my burden of never getting you, of never being worthy enough for your love, is lesser than the pain It would cause you, by just being mine. With this realization, I wake up. I know I am unworthy and it was all a dream. As I look away, I know you are leaving, and you break my heart doing so, but I could always lie to myself again, pretend that you love me, and be content.

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Freaky Valentine!

I am apprehensive about writing this piece because, for the first time, I feel I will not be able to give that night its full due. What started, as a dismal commemoration of being single one valentines’ eve, soon turned out to be the wildest night of my life!

We weren’t drunk, nor stoned. We were just wallowing… An hour passed with depressing songs of love. Love lost, lost love found, love lost and found and lost and never found…

It started out slow, a move here a movement there. Shoulder shrugging dance soon gave way to heavy head banging. No external intoxication, pure adrenalin! Suddenly, a pillow came flying my way, before I knew it, the four pillows on my bed were being ripped apart in the process of a pillow fight. There was screaming, it seemed in tune with Papa Roach (Last Resort). We wrestled with intentions of murder! There was sweat and hair all over our faces. We were hyperventilating…. almost asthmatic. Nothing deterred us. We were rolling on the cold floor, unable to breathe with laughter dominating each bronchiole. My body gave up; I now suffered from chronic hilarity! We were epileptically seizing in post traumatic laughter. It looked nothing like the pillow fight-ic arousal bits on American television. It was ugly.

Then it stopped… Time out… One could feel the tension. Though breathing, each knew that the other, silently prepared for the next attack. Eyes alert, were now Hi Tech cameras, programmed to spot and process movements in the split existence of a second….. Someone slightly shifted…. That was enough…. And the pillows rained, they thundered! Covers were torn, ripped into tatters; they were just slowing us down….props of nameless shapes were now used to smother faces and bodies alike. Each oppressor; overwhelmed and unrestrained.

In lieu of the chaotic, barbaric brutality, strategic symphony soon set in. Each doe-eyed the other. Innocent nonchalance could barely sustain to cover the exuberance boiling within….
They cornered me. I never knew where the first blow came from as I hit the cold ground, half struggling to get off my bean bag. The bag seemed to participate too. It was a wormhole, quick sand, one could never get out! The blows never stopped! I gathered all my strength and sat up. I snatched someone’s pillow. She was defenseless now! The others noticed that too…we were vultures, loyal to none but the meat of helpless prey. And we rained again, this time we were hailing! Pecking of the flesh till her skin turned red!

It had been hours, or so it seemed. After a point, our hands shivering with fatigue, just threw misdirected aims into thin air. At times, our own pillows would hit us, tiring mid way an attack. The laughter though, never ceased. It never ceased.

I will never know how it ended. How I closed the door and got on my bed. How the discarded cigarette butts reached the trash can or how a torn pillow cover ended up pasted to the wall. I will never know why my floor is sticky or how my beanbag is covered in icing! I will never know! And it’s beautiful to know that I will never know!

Thank You for Drinking

I am currently reading this very ‘trashy’ yet oddly captivating book called ‘Bobbed Hair and Bathtub Gin’. It’s about these four female writers and their tumultuous journey in and out of the writing arena. I was, somewhat ‘questionably’, inspired by this contemporary exhibition of female defiance in contrast to the daintily worded cries of the corseted bosom in, say, a Henry James portrayal of Rebellion. As the Karenin wife or Madam Bovary would drape themselves in curtains while prancing about married men and horny suitors and Daisy Miller or Scarlet o’ Hara would trollop around spilling out shame from behind laced, heart shaped corsets, the feisty writers of this dynamic piece of work would bare it all in four beds in one night with silk and gin!

I personally like bathing at midnight. It feels almost poetic. A day ends and another begins. All in that instant.

Nights glazed in pining for dreams, soaking in a cold bath, I soon forget if its gin or swirling water. The cubicle is dark with only moonlight pouring in. I open the window to allow additional street lights. Cold breeze gently teases my bare body. I look out at stars and night. I sit dripping on the bathroom floor, legs folded, and my knees against my bare shoulders, feeling the rigidity of my collarbone against them. My bare back shivers as the cold door resists my body heat. My painted nails reflect the streetlight as my wet hair curls into my neck. As I rest my cold cheeks on one knee, I gaze at the fresh scar on the other. I gently encircle it with the tip on my fingers. I feel cold and beautiful. The scar looks like the number 8. Or infinity.

It feels bald and reminds me of the membranes inside egg shells.

This scar is my trophy, for a month long life of dreams. A dream, that led me to infinite nights of coquettish philandering with intoxication and absurdity. I wouldn’t know when I was awake or distinguish one night from another. I still think of it fondly. I long for another brush against that infidelity, something to exaggerate my delirium. A Euphoric fiesta of every thing good and everything sinful. An iniquitous blend of strawberry and cream, that so define immorality when together.

Painted lips and powdered nose, I knew I belonged only to that burning elixir. Looking fondly at my beautiful drink in its clear glass, I recite;

“I owe you nothing. And you are nothing to me. Thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love.” (Moulin Rouge)

As I Rode from Perdition

I have never hated anybody in life. And, people say, that when you near death, you always find it in yourself to forgive. But I know now, that I don’t care. I feel vindictive. I want to hurt the people who hurt me that day. I find it odd that barring the importance of the helmet, this feeling of hatred for some selected people is all that the accident taught me.

I keep running it in my head over and over again. It seems to me that shock has robbed me of the most important second of my life.

Everything was going perfectly that day.

I remember turning to look for my cap. I remember turning back to say that I had spotted it.

I remember knowing that I was in the process of an accident. I remember not being scared, just confused. Falling felt almost comfortable. Time dilated as I felt every second of the swing as the bike began its side wards descent. I knew I wasn’t dying, my life didn’t flash before me. I think I let go of the bike and held her for a second. She wouldn’t let the handles go. All rationality required letting go of the swiftly skidding bike. I think I remember jumping off. Years of sports had harnessed my reflexes. I should have rolled and then skidded over to the middle of the road if my wounds are to be trusted. I remember looking over while skidding. The bike was on top of her as she skid on the road as well, headfirst. I remember thinking about her helmet. I remember knowing that I didn’t have one. I had to save my face. Almost instantly I pulled my head, with all my weight on my right hand and knee. I remember scraping against gravel and hot road as I came to a stop. I remember breathing in dust and tasting salty stones.

I saw the sunglasses my dad had gifted me. I remember wanting to cry. I couldn’t reach for them just yet. I looked back and saw her head exposed to oncoming traffic. Instinctively, I reached out and pulled her head aside. I felt stupid as people started to crowd. I wanted them all to go away. I didn’t feel hurt.
Her helmet was cracked in two like a flimsy egg shell. She was bleeding from her forehead. The sight of blood jerked me back to reality. There wasn’t any water to clean the wound. I remember thanking the helmet in my mind. Surprisingly I didn’t think of god or family. I remembered having no first aid for the first time in my life. I wanted to cry again. She kept looking at me. It was just the two of us there. Everybody else was silent noise. I knew I needed to say something to snap her out of her shock but I couldn’t bring myself to say anything.
I think I smiled. I don’t know why I smiled, but I knew that she would understand what I wanted to convey. She smiled back.

I didn’t know if I was hurt. Actually, I don’t remember feeling anything at that instant. I was just brazenly calm. Somehow, I remembered first aid checks. I asked her to move her hands and feet, to spot prospective bone injury, doing the same myself. Everything seemed to be functional.

I remember sitting outside someone’s home sipping plain soda. I remember hating the taste, but it was cold and I desperately needed to do something with my hands. I focused on the taste as it washed down the mud from my mouth. I faced away from her.
As I sat alone in some idiosyncratic peace, the memories flooded me with pure fear. I relived the incident again and again. I could feel my control giving up, as tears started pouring out. Fear is my only way of describing my state.

I saw her head, dragging against the ground with such force that only tatters of the helmet remained. Every time I saw the helmet, I feared for my life. All that while, my reflexes were the only grace that saved my life that day. Paranoia soon set in. I could feel the panic of the on coming shock attack. I had never been in shock. I faced away from everyone.

At that instant, my right hand decided to go numb. I couldn’t flex it with out excruciating pain. It exaggerated the panic. I started to weep like a baby for the fear of losing my right arm. My knee wound started becoming septic, as my knee revolted in pain. I hadn’t felt so much pain ever before. I could feel my whole face wet with tears. I needed comfort. Even amidst my best friends, I longed for another kind of comfort all together. I needed some one to hold me and hug me. I wanted to bawl without shame. I wanted everybody to know I was hurt and come to my aid. I was alone and afraid. I remember pitying myself. I couldn’t fathom how or why I was thinking about such mundane things. I wanted to snap out of it, but it felt too comfortable just thinking about the prospect of the men I loved being around at that instant.

Then I remember looking at my hand. I was moving my fingers and twitching my shoulders unknowingly. I wasn’t paralyzed. I put all my focus on myself. I felt her presence behind me, she was as hurt as I was, but more worried about me. I could feel her eyes on me. I knew she wanted to talk. I wanted to smile at her again. I felt angry at myself.

At that instant I knew something was truly important to me. Maybe it wouldn’t be my life’s motto, but at that moment it was everything I would live by.

I was important.

Here I was broken, and thinking about all the people I wanted around to pamper me, all the people who still didn’t care how close to death I was that day.
In my life, I have always given importance to things I can’t have. I have always run loops behind ideas that have only existed in my head and are in fact miles away from reality. Much of my trauma that day was self inflicted. It wasn’t the shortage of friends it was just the absence of the ones I had wanted there.

Not much of an insight from a near death Experience?!