postprotestmusings

1. It's definitely time for a new city.

2. I hate that going alone for protests is not a thing.

3. If I don't post about it on facebook am I less than political?

on the straight and narrow

1. You can look, and only look.

2. You dream and dream, urgent and hot and disorienting, yet the prospect of a not!dream cripples.

3. You are starved of touch. You make do with pixels.

4. The world goes on, no one else frozen on the straight and narrow like you. They are happy and they laugh, and you see them through a cloud of smoke in your mind.

5. Are you the only one unhappy? Is the other point moving towards you doing so with no regrets? You can't ask.

6. A beauty has everything you want. Does that mean you are ugly?

7. Never happy. Wear blinkers.

romance at the edges of panic, and vice versa

Kandaghat, at 9 pm, on the cusp of December. It is deserted, and cold. The bus drives on into the fog, tail lights fading slowly, and a man walks past the light with a bucket. We stand under a street light.

I exhale and my breath joins the fog. We are on the side of the road, on the side of a hill, a valley sparkling with distant lights spread out in front of us. Your fingers are chilly in mine. We see a patch of light in the sky, the moon must be bright tonight. For a moment, I feel like we are the only people in the world.

My teeth are rattling and I clench your hand when you whisper, Did you call her? Is she coming? How long will she take?

The phone rings, terse words exchanged, thank you we are in the town centre, under the streetlights. OK see you!

An hour till she can come here, I tell you and force a grin. Panic is an distant acrid smell on the air.

I have gone too long without romance in my life. The bus ride here, holding hands, heads resting on shoulders, I have wanted this since school trips to Shimla. Whispering together and kissing surreptitiously while watching bad Bollywood movies, I did that in a Volvo bus coming here with you. And at this point, where people move in together and plan lives around partners, I sneak out and lie and pretend you're a friend, and change your name on my phone. I'll take romance where I get it.

We could build a fire, you fret, but these sticks are wet. Fuck.

And so, bodies shaking -- shaking like mine will again next year on a sunny beach, in the grip of fever I will resolutely ignore for romance -- I take out a thin blanket and spread it on the platform at the edge of the hill, sit with my feet dangling, like I like and you hate, and smile at you.

We hug for warmth, kiss to stop our teeth chattering. I wrap my thick shawl around us both. You grip my hands hard, as if to stop me from giving in to my impulse to jump off heights.

Every car snaking around the road jolts us, and my phone screen glows into life in hope. We stand up because our asses are too cold now. Maybe I want to enjoy this -- why not, how many times in your life will you be stranded in a sleeping hill town in the middle of winter, this is the stuff you write novels or trite blog posts about -- and so I hug you again, and offer to sing to you. Panic is whooshing past in the distance, headlights wavering on the road ahead.

You look at me like I have lost my mind. (To be honest, these last two months, I have been wondering when you'll look at me like that.) Yes, this is ridiculous, I know. Part of learning the fragility of the romance myth is also realising that we can say the same words, I love you darling, and be on completely different pages.

Is this the real life, is this just fantasyyyyy, I warble into the cold wind pushing into the gap between my neck and the shawl. I want you to join in, I want you to smile at me, I want to not be this far gone in love with you; I want to give in to panic with a clean conscience. We're kinda lost, the phone glows, we'll take some time. 

You kiss my fingers till I can feel them again, and I sing till I forget the words, and hopped up, I ask you to dance with me in a puddle of light, pulling you away from the dark. You oblige for a few seconds, and then look at the town. If it gets any later than this, we should probably start knocking on a few doors.

Wh-h-hh-hy, I say, my face frozen into a grin.

BECAUSE IT IS ONLY GOING TO GET COLDER Panic speaks.

*

We sing in the car, because it's a musical kinda group. The boy driving snaps, what is that lifeless version of Bruce Springsteen back there?, contemptuous of the one-woman-one-guitar-singing-soulful-acoustic-reinterpretations. The headlights click back and forth, from high beam to low beam. Driving in the hills at night is not an easy game. Panic hovers at the edges of the road, the milestones that gleam and fade as we pass.

Later they tell us we looked frozen and we practically fell into the car. Later, what spirit, you two, a day's journey just to be with your friends. We down some rum and cold food and sleep on a hard bed, and then separate, still and forever unable to cuddle. I talk to our friends till late in the night. We enjoy ourselves, and secretly-but-not hold hands in the car ride back home.

You know, I will only remember my cold numbed nose and the lights twinkling in the Shimla valley; Kandaghat asleep in a golden haze, the kid walking by with his father and the musical bus horns, your hair under the streetlight. Somehow, I will only remember that when we were in the middle of an adventure, you kissed me back.

(Because panic sits at the back of the class, and soon I will learn that when it draws attention to itself the others start to leave.)

maya angelou is dead

I remember reading her in college, the first 'feminist' poem that I remember. I remember stumbling over 'dance like I've got diamonds/at the meeting of my thighs', and being laughingly asked by a friend to read it aloud, doing so with a hitch and a grin, and feeling somehow grown up, aware of that meeting place in a different way than before. She was brave to write the poem, she was brilliant and poetic and a wonderful writer, and I got to touch a little bit of that bravery.

A second hand copy of 'I know why the caged bird sings' sits in my shelf, perennially on my to-read list, victim to my impulse to not read what I have pegged as gloomdoom novels. Someday.

The free bird thinks of another breeze

and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees

and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn

and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams

his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream

his wings are clipped and his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings

with a fearful trill

of things unknown

but longed for still

and his tune is heard

on the distant hill

for the caged bird

sings of freedom.

finally watched 'the fall'

Come back, Roy.
We have wandered after butterflies
down labyrinths and human maps,
looking through bandit eyes
at love gained and love lost,
the cost of swimming through
the sea, slow and gentle,
this is us, Roy.

We jump and leap and fall and hurt
and tell each other tales.
Not for us, the dreamless sleep.

suddenly

I start to think of  life after. 

a quiet day at home

A beautiful phrase I read somewhere - 'introspection is slipping away from me.'

Perhaps there are phases where my subconscious doesn't want me to look into it. Perhaps, it knows in its subconsciousy wisdom, that in order to hold it together, Harshita has to keep looking away, distracting herself, going to sleep as soon as she can.

Perhaps it was reading Foucault in class, how confession is a text shot through with power. I was thinking of my first diary in that class. One that came with a lock. I was in class 8 and I wrote things in it that were worthy of being kept under lock and key, or so I thought. Crushes and little feuds and insecurities and bitching about my mother and wishing life was like a movie. Then I was thinking of 'journaling' as a way to reduce stress. How we give so much power to the written words, to the mess of ink and pixels and an intensity of belief that it will alter the brain's chemistry and life's circumstances. Yeah right.

Oh Foucault, what have you done to me. (said many many college students.) (Butler's next.)

Besides, there isn't much time to introspect these days. It seems I spend my life travelling in the metro. I have stopped squeezing my bum into the small spaces in between women who will ALWAYS make more space than they have, crossing legs and shrinking spines, bless their bodies socialised into accepting, and hearts inured to discomfort. I press my nose to the kindle, and prepare for classes on the one hour towards the university, and gobble novels on the way back. I am reading so many novels these days, stealing time from my Legit Reading. I don't care. Women be legit villainesses and grey heroines yo. Thank you Atwood and Flynn and Hardinge.

I get gaspy sometimes, hearing that I've hitched the next few years to something that's not mine to control (like anything is), to something whose nature is fundamentally uncertain. But I flip it around, and assure him, this is just a way for my adventure to begin, you were just a catalyst. And then I breathe again, careful deceit insulating the inside of my lungs.