Hey, Mrs. Dalloway

Mrs. Dalloway said she would pick up the flowers herself.

Through time and space, lines such as these echo. Without even being aware of such words, such poetry, silently striding in and out of her life, she looked on. It was a balmy morning- the tea was brought in, the sheets were folded away. The sunlight filtered through the windows and its many layered laces, and the spouse was off at work.

It is during these times, these very times that the formidable happens. She remembered what it was like for her a few years ago- she would always tell him that the nights were the toughest. Not because she needed another presence around to fall asleep or wake up to in the middle of the night. But because, this was when she was finally left alone with her thoughts. And those, as we know, are not exactly the kindest of things.

She looked at herself, at what she seemed like now. All the little things were done up- her toenails were painted, the pillowcases were coordinated. Oh, so much prettiness all around, could a woman ask for anything more?

What would Mrs. Dalloway have had to say about this particular situation?

Tea leaves are interesting things, she thought. They come in different flavours, and colours even. Lending all their character and richness to the brew itself, they then become objects that are best put in a compost pit or a garbage bin. But, please note, without the tea leaves there would be no tea.

So, sometimes, that’s what we do with our lives too. Give ourselves here, give in a little more there, so that in the end the useless leaves can be thrown off.

She carefully put her left foot forward, outside the confines of her silky dressing gown. Her leg was white, a little pink and peachy as her husband liked to call it. And then the bend of the knee, and an exquisitely done thigh. Sub-consciously, she parted her gown some more so that she could look at the entire length of her leg. The scars were there, blue black brown. Delightfully monochromatic colours, all. Just as the tea lent soul to the brew, the colours added character to the scars.

Some of them were mature and blended with the skin, as if that is right were they belonged. The others were a little raw, drying.
The day, and the general scheme of things seemed to suggest that the time was right too.

The tea was getting cold. She picked the cup up gingerly, and smiled to herself. The kind of smile you have that says all is right with the freaking world and you are at such utter peace, oh la la. She flung the cup across the room- straight at the wall.

The china broke into pieces- some big, some small. She picked up two of the pieces- one big, one small, and sat back on her chair. With the big piece, she made another wide slit on her just below the others- the blood trickled, the colours were so striking and beautiful. It went down the length of her leg, leaving a glorious, gory trail behind, and made this little red spot on the white floor. Oh what beautiful colours, you would surely love it, Mrs. Dalloway. She held the small piece of ceramic in her hand and looked at her creation, her piece of art. As if it required a ceremonial crowning, the little piece of china was inserted in the slit she made- the throbbing blood and muscle and nerves and all that stuff inside felt so good.

Aren’t scars beautiful things, don’t they lend so much character?
She felt alive, so very alive.

The Message

She breathed
A message
Slowly
But surely
That was to
Journey
Many miles
Across land
Oceans
Mountains
For
Peace, hope
Light and love
Almost in silent answer
Grass sprouted fresh
A sprightly bloom
In a certain step
Despite the rain
Despite the falling rain.

For only gossamer my gown

The stars pop out of the sky, one after the other. Dawn breaks. He slowly opens his eyes as this happens, the trickle of traffic at that hour with employees who have pulled all nighters and are on their way home for some sleep, fitness freaks in their smart fresh attire, an occasional flower seller on his bicycle to the market.

All the familiar noises. He knew them all like the palm of his hand, like the song you learn when you are five years old and the tune goes round and round your head even at thirty, sometimes haunting, sometimes not.

The ink
The water on it
The blue fades away
With the colourless

I remember someone telling me about this man when I was really young. One early morning through the dust that the sweepers gathered up, I chuckled with glee when I first saw him. Oh, the man with all the bottles. Baatliwaala, I happily joked to myself and stared at him till the yellow school bus swooshed me away.

The dreams
They were there,
I think


He would sit on the pavement, under this huge Banyan tree. Last evening, I went back for old times sake. My fingers reached out, trying to touch. And that’s all I could do at the sight of the stump that sheltered life all those days, for so very long.

Just like the glass
The scars
The cut fingers
The promises


Then, many years later when are ambling around putting things in perspective, look at what you have, what you lost, what you can have, what you may not have, what people say you will not have but you want to have, what you wished you had, what you wished you would have said, what you wish you will say, what you wish you will hear someone say, what you think someone will say but may not say, you realise you have grown into him, the old beggar man, but with just prettier clothes.

I did not know
That my ink
Will be washed away too
And I would be
Just like you,
Baatliwaala

Just like him, you do not want to admit that you are scared. Just like him, you want to see that warm face. Who knows what else is going to be just like him.




For only gossamer my gown: E. Dickison, ofcourse.

Little Blue Star

Little blue star
With the fragrance
Of a million lilies
Abloom together
With a touch
As soft
As an intoxicating lotus
Brushed gently
Against lips
I wish your voice
Would fill my world
With celestial music
Once again.

I strain my eyes
In the brightness
Of a full moon night
To discover
That in your place
Is now a memory.

Won’t you come
And take my hand
Like you did
All those lifetimes ago
Won’t you come
My earth soul
Begs
To be with you.

Forgotten feelings
From another life
Grips my heart,
And my mind
Is all aflutter
At the thought
Of thriving
In your shadow.

Mysterious flautist
Why don’t you
Come and make me yours
My sad heart
Is all aflutter.


Postscriptum: Heavily inspired by Alai Payude.