Her Rainbow, In Conversation

By guest writer: Siya

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Like you do not want to touch a rainbow and only look at it so that it speaks to you, I'm inside an airy bubble which I dare not touch, lest it should burst. In between boundaries and beyond them, these rainbows and the bubbles live and breathe. They live so deep inside, I fear I shall not find them someday. But then, I know, when you hold my hands, I shall find them.

The spaces go round and round our bodies, elusive but present.

Of thoughts born in your absence

by Guest Writer: Myithili Hazarika myithilihazarika@gmail.com

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It is raining and I wish I could write under the light of a candle to you. Perhaps, neon lights speak and show too much; I like shades and light, they travel into every fiber of your nerves and jostle the sleepy spaces at the tips. There might be many ‘you’s there; you have to find yourself (I know you can and will; so I have spread out many of those).

The mind speaks too much, you know. Wish I had a recorder inside, to record and rewind. But then, there would be so many other things/thoughts which the mind has to say. I love them, sometimes... like now. Like how there is Beethoven and there is Mozart and there is you, all of us drenched in this rain, drenched to our skins. I can travel miles in midnights like this one.

I’m fidgeting a little... you haven’t called.

Oh my God... there you are... wait... I’ll come back... Let me talk to you!



Distorted Thoughts: Episode II

Terrace Nights

 

And you made me to sing to the music of the tranquil upon a mesa. It was but your presence that made me the Billy Joel of the night. For where can old Billy find an audience, as silent as the movement of the snail and as connecting as the two ends of a circle.

With our stargazing romance restricted by the clouds, we had quickly moved onto our palm’s world. We traveled to the future in them, frowning at lines not mapping to our desire, and looking for the missing ones. Some ran hand in hand with what we wanted to see and we floated in its dream-cloud for time we knew not...

Some songs fluttered around, like fireflies without a desire of direction. We picked a few and let them light our eyes through our heartstrings.

 

Now that the clouds are gone and our palms are covered with the sweat of the day, we have but one desire – to climb the thirteen floors, on a moonless night, to the water tank upon the terrace. The remnants of the songs we had sung reverberate as the music of the heartstrings that lives in the smallest fraction of our moments – in our heartbeat.

Heart Crossings

The most constant thing in your life, a heartbeat, often bridges you to the most mercuric and intriguing world.

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Listen to your heart at times. Listen to its soft words that reverberates in the uniformity of the night. Let it take you swinging back to those secret stories that you have once lived and which are now written in the depths of your heart, in its deepest corners where you have left them sealed in some unmarked graves.

Listen to your heart as it wheedles you. In the hour which sees the orchid bloom to the dying night, let your heart open one of the graves in its bosom. The stories therein are your small secrets, the sweetest treasures of your life. Cherish them as secretly as the orchid’s bloom. And before the morning dew sets in, put them back to their buried state.

Go back to the arms of the lover who gifted you the first rose or the one who drew your initials in his arms in blood. Tell him now what you could not tell him then – that you were scared to see the scar, but then secretly loved the act. Add a few portions of spice to that story and take it to an evening where you could feel the scar liberating your deepest feelings. Won’t you uncover now what you have not discovered in your entire life – the tender feelings of a young heart?

Go to the moment when you had your first kiss, and the moments thereafter when you went back home wondering why every stranger on the road was staring at you. Your excitement was clearly overshadowed by the fear that you were an amateur kisser and more by the fear that some relative or family friend has seen you. Try to feel that kiss today without the shadow of the fear cloud, but with the same newness that your abused lips cannot buy anymore.

Go back to the long hours that you spent staring into nothingness in your drunken stupor. Try recollecting the promises that you made that day. Someday, I’d do this… I’d do that… And what not… You’d definitely end up drawing a line to where you would have been if you would have fulfilled all those promises. Well, if that would-have-been state makes you to feel miserable, don’t try to find an antidote. Instead, let that feeling sink through your pores as well. Afterall, what is life without some small regrets that you don’t care about much, but which pops up like a swarm of stinging bees when things don’t seem to be moving?

Go back to the class of the professor who lived in your fantasies. To the moments when the size of your room-mate’s breasts prompted you to look into the mirror everyday, to check if you were anywhere nearer. To the day when you hugged your mother before boarding the train to the city, till the time you realized the worth of that hug and the fact that how meagerly they were placed in the scale of time…

Let these ticketless voyages remain a small secret – stories that are your own. Every time you visit it, garnish it with the best fantasies that the juices of your mind makes available in that moment. Soon you will start making different recipes with the same ingredients but with different proportions of emotions, drama, clairvoyance, adventure and surrealism – proportions to suit your mood of the day. This when cooked with the base story that you have already lived, will be just right for your heart.

Serve it well...

Lovemaking

How I love the act of lovemaking. Watching the sea caress the sands into an evenness and leaving in its belly some shells wrapped in the covers of foam that had once breathed in its divine lymph. If I classify it as a smooth union, there are the times when I see them in a violent act. Whatever it is, the sea always leaves gifts for the sands and takes with it anything the sand has to give. I look into the Arabian Sea in the darkness of a moonless night and see nothing. The sound of the waves hitting the shore and the muffled song of the wind is all that my senses can detect. In the distance the horizon ceases to exist and for once the sea and the skies are one. I wonder if the stars feel close to the sea during one such spectacle. I have been told by a painter that there are three basic colors: red, yellow and blue and all the others are just derivatives of it. From the east to the west, from the morning to the night, from the skies to the sole of my shoes, I see colors that are neither red, nor green or yellow. In their lovemaking of different intensities, these colors have lost their identities.

I make love to my beloved on the sands of a stranded beach, wearing colors that are none of red, green or yellow, at a time in the night when our horizon of infinity concurs with the horizon in the distance. I am belittled by the thought that we are still not a part of the homogeneity of the existence around us. What convergence do we lack that forestalls our entry through the gates? I lie on the sands on my back and look at a star. My beloved sprinkles some sands on my chest and I kiss her lipstick laden strawberry lips. I am still not the sand, and I cannot see any stars in her hair. We make love, and yet it is not lovemaking. We are still two pairs of eyes, two pairs of ears, a pair of nose, eight distinct limbs trying to cocoon into a single heartbeat.

That stride towards a “WE” needs the dissolution of two “I”s. The irony is not our reluctance to let go of that “I” but the verity that we are yet to discover it fully. But doesn’t the sea get to know itself better because of the shore? Doesn’t the sky whisper to its stars to look at it’s reflection in the mirror of the sea?

While we enjoy these sights and sounds of the togetherness of the universe around us, we are caught up as a solitary spec of white in a tissue paper blotted with an ink. The water touches our feet; she smiles at the receding wave and draws a pattern with her toe in the sand. The waves come again to take the pattern in its foamy ride. She draws an arc on my chest with her finger, much like the pattern in the sand. The cold sensation of her wet finger slowly sinks into my skin and with it the feeling of her presence.