Tuesday, 31 October 2017
Thursday, 26 October 2017
Monday, 23 October 2017
Saturday, 21 October 2017
Monday, 16 October 2017
NUMB #1
You find passion in books, music and theatre but does it come anywhere close to the touch of my cold skin, the warmth of security and stability?
You see me shudder, hyperventilate, weep and yet don't stop. Your fast pace makes my heart cringe, eyes turn red and I dig my nails into my palms. Yet, I feel numb. I feel without a purpose. I feel disposed. I feel like yesterday's trash.
You see me shudder, hyperventilate, weep and yet don't stop. Your fast pace makes my heart cringe, eyes turn red and I dig my nails into my palms. Yet, I feel numb. I feel without a purpose. I feel disposed. I feel like yesterday's trash.
Oh, how you walk away from me now; your shoulders broadened and that smirk that makes me want to punch a brick wall but I'm sure will make me fall for you all over again instead.
The panic attacks will go away, nightmares will stop but that image of you distancing yourself and approaching the horizon will still make me shut my eyes in fear and grab the sheets, wanting to hold onto something and yet I feel nothing. I feel numb.
You took the sunshine-in-her eyes happy girl and turned her numb to her bones. But she will move on knowing she's past the worst phase of her life. She'll be happy. She'll be content.
Yet I'm numb. The only difference this time is that I'm numb to your change of heart, to your apologies and the dozen roses that you send every morning.
Now that you come with regret in your eyes and apologies on your tongue, remorselessly and mercilessly tearing me apart again and you realize who I am without you, Will you be numb too?
- Pooja Wath
- Pooja Wath
Sunday, 8 October 2017
HOME COMING
Come along with me to my home. Maybe that'll remind you how far we have to go. Maybe that'll make every fight that we get into, inconsequential. Because it's not just my home - it's my history. And when you'll see everything that has made me, you'll understand me a bit more. I want you to live my life like I want to live yours.
Let us go then, you and I Haven't you always wanted to go visit my home? What better time than now, then When the currents are slow, and the excitements high. When my village is still accessible but I'm far from home. And what calls me back is our desire not to be alone. We'll wait with glee for the 'bokul' to flower, late into the night; And not sleep till dusk kisses the day, and the first drops of dew had fallen. After a walk maybe, on the 'dubori' of our courtyard we'll start our journey ; For lores say 'this then that the day passes unsullied. My village is on the most worn out road. Years of the river and years of screeching tyres Have catapulted its journey towards an early oblivion. It connects me to my childhood, nonetheless. The one where 'aamlokhi' trees were our best friends and One had to toil hard for the 'jolphai''. Anyone who knew to climb the perpendicular 'tamul' Was filled with pride, visible on his face and ours. Maybe I've climbed the tree to a height, I'm afraid to look down now. I think I'm stuck, never to make ground again. The ride to my home would be picturesque, I promise Which is why we'll travel in the winters. When the space between you and the horizon Is yellow; mellow you'll feel. We'll take the long, snake-road; adorned By rivers and hills and crevices. Green hills on both our sides and the sun, milder Following us around. Maybe I'll make a stop to remember those days. When the road was still more motorable, and I'd catch my father in a good mood, and he'd Let me ride the bike for a change. The stream where I almost drowned as a child is dry, now. Although, now there's a bridge above it, unlike The 'haku' in those days where many would slip And embrace the water. I won't be able to show you our house that burnt down, alas! Please don't complain when you see soot on some trees in my backyard. Time ages us changes us, but scars live on. And maybe the fresh heaps of boulders borrowed from The nearby hill will tell us both, the village Is getting a makeover done. (Hasn't it always been?) Which is why I wonder, will I ever be able to Take you to my home? Now, there is a 'bagicha' of 'sah' in our backyard, My parents have moved on too, Or, just maybe, it's their way of remembering what once was. Maybe you'll be able to find the answer. Which is why I'm asking you To come along to my home. A place where I no longer reside and You've never been. A place where you'll find me, amongst the 'Tamul' trees, Unseen.
-pratyosh gogoi
Bokul - A fragrant flower bearing tree.
Dubori - A type of grass.
Aamlokhi - Aamla.
Jolphai - Olive.
Tamul - Areca tree.
Haku - A makeshift bamboo bridge with poles and one bamboo tree laid horizontally to walk upon.
Sah bagicha - Tea garden.
Let us go then, you and I Haven't you always wanted to go visit my home? What better time than now, then When the currents are slow, and the excitements high. When my village is still accessible but I'm far from home. And what calls me back is our desire not to be alone. We'll wait with glee for the 'bokul' to flower, late into the night; And not sleep till dusk kisses the day, and the first drops of dew had fallen. After a walk maybe, on the 'dubori' of our courtyard we'll start our journey ; For lores say 'this then that the day passes unsullied. My village is on the most worn out road. Years of the river and years of screeching tyres Have catapulted its journey towards an early oblivion. It connects me to my childhood, nonetheless. The one where 'aamlokhi' trees were our best friends and One had to toil hard for the 'jolphai''. Anyone who knew to climb the perpendicular 'tamul' Was filled with pride, visible on his face and ours. Maybe I've climbed the tree to a height, I'm afraid to look down now. I think I'm stuck, never to make ground again. The ride to my home would be picturesque, I promise Which is why we'll travel in the winters. When the space between you and the horizon Is yellow; mellow you'll feel. We'll take the long, snake-road; adorned By rivers and hills and crevices. Green hills on both our sides and the sun, milder Following us around. Maybe I'll make a stop to remember those days. When the road was still more motorable, and I'd catch my father in a good mood, and he'd Let me ride the bike for a change. The stream where I almost drowned as a child is dry, now. Although, now there's a bridge above it, unlike The 'haku' in those days where many would slip And embrace the water. I won't be able to show you our house that burnt down, alas! Please don't complain when you see soot on some trees in my backyard. Time ages us changes us, but scars live on. And maybe the fresh heaps of boulders borrowed from The nearby hill will tell us both, the village Is getting a makeover done. (Hasn't it always been?) Which is why I wonder, will I ever be able to Take you to my home? Now, there is a 'bagicha' of 'sah' in our backyard, My parents have moved on too, Or, just maybe, it's their way of remembering what once was. Maybe you'll be able to find the answer. Which is why I'm asking you To come along to my home. A place where I no longer reside and You've never been. A place where you'll find me, amongst the 'Tamul' trees, Unseen.
-pratyosh gogoi
Thursday, 5 October 2017
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
-
Date: 15th June 2017 To be Opened: 15th June 2022 Dear Me, I hope you are alive, I hope things work out for you, I hope you didn... -
They tried to pull her down and make her weak Because she was perceived as peculiar, oh no, actually unique Her glee and cheer Pinched the...
