Aananda

  How do I explain This drive  To be seen  To be able to say - ‘this is all my bad. handle it’  And to hear a response that says ‘gladly’  When I hear that I would not eat. Not cook. Not have a bath.  Not get out of bed. Not watch anything.  I would smoke. And smoke more.  I would get mad, and be petty.  I would get irritated by everything.  I wouldn’t allow my own nurturer to step into every   crevice she sees. She ruins me sometimes.  If I could I would let the bad be bad  And the worse get worse  I would breathe and do nothing  I would allow for destruction right in front of my eyes  What I look for is someone that says  “This is okay. You can fall apart.” What I seek for myself, Is me saying.  “You are ok. You can fall apart.”

The love I give - sparse and scattered, are rare occurrences. Incomplete, with many unanswered bids for love  and many silences left unfilled.  I don’t know if I’ve been told how to love  Or receive when I've been given.  The cup is empty both ways.  But moments do occur when love acts through me.   It’s not me doing the deed of loving someone,   but love itself, taking matters into her hands  and pouring love in crevices she finds; on dried  grass waiting to be reminded of the freshness of water.  I have no say or claim on those acts. My love has been conditional and difficult  But the love that pours through me has been  freeing and complete. I don’t think I know how to love. Nor do I know where love comes from. All I hope is that love flows through me more.

Pretty coffee mugs,  With many flavors  of tea and coffee,  Donuts and waffles,  sugars and sugars!  To drive cars, and hold hands  (P.S.: My hands yearn to be held, always.) Honoring all the other loves of my life who've settled in the ballroom of my heart.  To remember them, and say their name out loud  This is the way to love me.  A silent spectator To laundry being folded  To coffee mugs being washed  To the paperwork being filled  To the maintenance of it all.

  If I could tell you one thing to make you feel better,  well, who am I kidding, I wouldn’t stop at one.   I’d make myself home in your misery to humor you with metaphors and analogies I'd blurt stupid jokes that’ll hold the weight of the difficulties.  I’d place my palm  or maybe just the tip of my fingers  on your chest,  or head,  or back to remind you you’re not alone.  I’d give you hugs that feel like you’ve finally arrived  And I’d apologize that love wasn’t around all this while. I’m here now;  A makeshift work-in-progress version of love  that’s insecure and smells like weed sometimes;   a love that can’t stop munching and asks you to repeat yourself 17 times  because the network is too bad, and love doesn’t want to let anything go.  A love that misses your play; A love that writes below-average poems but sends them your way; A love that reads too much self-help and rants about the same. A love that...

As I step into adulthood, this slow and unwished  crawl; I yearn for conversations  that focus on the ‘it-ness’ of it all. Where you calmly say to me  ‘It’s been a rough week and I yearn for more peace  where I can walk beneath the trees without a rush’.  And I say “I feel like I’m getting pulled from all sides,  although all of this is my choice.  I am grateful for my life. To have a job,  and a family who loves me. But I am tired.  And I can’t be grateful when I’m tired.”  I yearn for conversations at the end of the day,  or in the middle, when days have ceased to exist,  and we count our lives as the breaks                 between   work.  And I ring a reminder of the truth that ‘I  love you. I’m glad I have this love that provides a respite  from the chaos and the hurry-ness of this world.”  Although we both know, that we will rush  this convers...

“Do you want to see a counselor? I’ve been watching a show where a counselor ruins a marriage and brings it to the brink of divorce. We need to be careful. We’re putting our lives in their hands. I will come to one session as well. I think that would suffice. I don’t want to spend that much money on it. What expenses do we have anyway? I know why you’re sad. It’s because you’re life is going nowhere and I’ve been asking you a lot of questions, and you have no answers. And you don’t know what to do or where to go. I’m sure at least one of them rings true to you. I could be a counselor. A counselor does nothing but listen to you speak while you find your own answers. You don’t need someone outside for that. Why is it that people didn’t need counselors 10 years ago? Why now? Why can’t you just marry now? What is happening with that course you were going to apply? What are you wasting your time on? If only you stop…no, listen to me! Did anyone say something to you? Why are you sad? Do you ...

This is an ode to all the poems I’ve come across that  reminded me of you. The ones that I’ve carefully saved to share  on a rainy day, or when we bid farewell And I can finally be vulnerable. A section of my wall filled with those reminders and I guess I’m giving myself the privilege of love  although all of reality calls against it.  There are no consolations to be done here. I have found something magical in the air that I cannot grasp. A beautiful flower  that I did not pluck. And I let it live its natural course.  And when it leaves, I hope it creates space for something new.   

I don’t want you far away;  While I sit here, reading one book after another  pondering how I've had to delay  every conversation for another day  since you haven’t been around.  But you’re unhinged; indifferent; still the same.  You’ve met women the likes of me,  and you hold an ambiguous interest in everybody.  And I’m here; opting disconnection as a form of protection  creating clear demarcations of what you can and cannot see;   creating limitations to my vulnerability.  I’m here; holding my suspect edifice upright in the air, as atlas did the sky. 

Today, I ponder  over the delicate endeavor  of life; where each step  calls for the most curious  concern and care towards the other.  Each misstep to be re-assessed  with a gentle touch.  where we're delicate both  in our thought and speech  as we choose our words carefully  pausing with each breath as we breathe meaning into the words we speak.  When you’re delicate in your dealings  of everyday life  and everyday people; and  we all make sense of the world  standing shoulder to shoulder;  a life well lived presents itself to you.  There is no cause for concern.   

I’m living each moment like I’m going to be here forever  Buying furniture like we’re building a home together  Getting a mortgage like we’d never split the difference  Flying like Icarus, wings spread, soaring towards the sun.  But we’ve both been through these roads before forever would be short this time again But each time we pause, I wish for a night  where dusk turns to dawn, and the memory stays like the songs of my youth, I remember every word from. 

  The place you once called home is now a stranger place than the outside world. And you’re wondering what went wrong; what changed that you’re having to wager so much trying to be sane. This is getting difficult, there’s no way out. But there’s a voice telling me what you want to hear. And I bring forth kindness and love, comfort food and soup that we’ll reheat and share. I’ll tell you stories of times before that I’ve heard from someone else. There’s something holding you down, but you don’t want to go there. And I’ll hold you and tell you, there’s nothing else you need to do but stay. We’ll solve puzzles together and I’ll make you hot tea or coffee. We’ll sit outside and stare at gardens, till the end of daylight. Times have been difficult and being strong isn’t easy. You’ve found ways to survive but we’re meant for more than just breathing. All essentials taken care of, what would you like more of? A while we play, and sing. A while we listen to some music. But alas I leave, ...

 Joan Didion wrote a book called ‘The Year of Magical Thinking’, about the grief and mourning that followed her husband’s death in December 2003. This book is investigative journalism attacking the self. A writer’s deep reflection on the end of a symbiotic relationship of 40 years; the bereavement and irrationality that followed; and the vortexes she couldn’t escape. I’m 19 as I write this. I was never the target audience for this book. Even as I binged through reading it, I knew this book wasn’t for me. But if grief hits everyone the same, I was reminded that it hit my mother too. I saw what it was like for her to go through the intense grief following the death of my father. And how she was then asked, throughout the years, to shed these parts of herself and look ahead. Time and again, people who grieve are asked not to indulge in self-pity even when every timed-by-the-clock habit that they’ve followed for decades, have to at once, be discarded. Conversations and chores wou...

there are conversations to be had, and pretends to be played. embarrassments to laugh at,  and colleges to complain of.  There are problems to be shared in short crisp sentences,  and consolations done just the same.  With a wish for more, but solace in some.  There’s distance between you and I the width of the universe.  And here I am, glad to be in the same universe.

you would’ve enjoyed knowing me; to see how I love the same music you did; to see that I eye      and love    just like you did. and with your time here, you found a way to be us. and I could use some aid in knowing how to be me,  because these puzzle pieces keep getting lost  and I lose another each time I go in search for one. But in remembering you i hope that our shared DNA would make the pieces you left behind fit perfectly into my gaps. and I’d know myself through you. But now you’ve fold into yourself and there’s nothing holding my universe together.

A burning flame of a soul causing a slow burn of my own. I cannot avert, I surrender to your indifference; your clout; your curb. You’re a blazing angel and I’m a gazer; serenading in rapture; only a witness to your magnificent show. Watching you, as the fire purifies; watch my destruction in your eyes. And the whole world is grey now that I’ve seen your glow. for the reality of you feels more real than the rest of our Lord’s ordeal. There is no crossroads; I have only one way to go. and my cruel wicked hope trots along on a path it doesn’t belong. And I’ll continue to love you dearly with a vague hostility. And the only way I’ll ever have you is if I step into the same pyre as you. melting into oneness, tranquil at home; until then, I’m stuck in monochrome.

For someone who prefers silence, and has a ‘it’ll sort itself out’ reaction to all things in life, I find it rather easy to seep into the background, and to sit down quiet as the world descends into chaos. Assuming the role of a passive observer in my own life, I didn’t mind not having opinions, or not standing up for myself. I did not mind leaving the revolution to others. In all honesty, I’ve never felt the need to explain myself to anyone either. Indifferent to how the world worked itself out, I found a way to make do with personal validation instead of standing up for what I represent. But passivity can be equally destructive. History is stained with women deemed hysterical every step of the way, and we’ve resorted to gain the quiet indifference of a man to ensure we fence ourselves from being called crazy, or hormonal. We’ve distanced us from our own sisters; apprehensive of being labelled one among them. And now, our voice’s go uncared for, and we’re still dependant on our bre...

A friend of mine recently wrote me a poem. A birthday present telling me that she loved me despite all differences. I have to mention ‘despite all differences’ because our story was never that of just love. Her poem didn’t sugar coat the oscillations of ‘connection, disconnection and reconnection’ that all friendships (including ours) are invariably made of; but rather she hailed them as our battle scars. When I stare straight into love like that, which has the audacity to charge regardless of all differences, I get uncertain of my own ability to do that. Because there have been so many times that I couldn’t. Like with family, where love exists but in some weird corner that is sometimes difficult to access; and I’m unable to love despite all differences. Or with friends I’m so used to taking for granted. I’m sure love exists there too, but I don’t think I ever looked at how I let it blur out; how I let myself grow indifferent to the same things that bring value to life. I hate what th...

It was only three days ago that we (my family) became victims of a cybercrime. Victims of a fraud customer-care number that left us confused, and blind to what was being done to us. It left us lesser not only in money, but also in faith. It was only three days ago that I was at once reminded that the people we live among are desperate, broken, and unjust. Looking back, there were so many glaring red flags during our call that day, and we naively ignored them. We’re an educated family and losing money because of a cybercrime is a reminder struck right across the face of what happens to those who unsuspectingly believe. And I’m not just talking about this one time. Every time you find yourself fooled; gutted by thoughts of your own ignorance, you start building walls around yourself. There is a sense of urgency. A glaring alarm telling you to get everything under control, and to never gamble like this again. As if the only way to get through life is by rigorously protecting yourself ev...

A Beautifully Foolish Endeavour is the much-awaited sequel to Hank Green’s first novel An Absolutely Remarkable Thing. The story picks off right where AART ended, but unlike the first book where our protagonist April May was our only narrator; we have five POV's in the sequel. This is a very subtle but effective way to beautifully incorporate the core message of the novel into its structure. The core message of this story is that  the most important thing that we can do with our power is to almost always give it away . And letting people tell their story in their own words is reflective of that ideology. With an unpredictable but bittersweet ending, Hank Green takes us on a journey in understanding our best and worst instincts. I'm reminded that we humans are radically collaborative, profoundly empathetic, and deeply communal.  I came out of this book hopeful and deeply respectful of my own human existence and that of others; along with a deeper understanding of the natur...

I once walked past two frogs that lie; Dead and dry and dirty at night; And I looked past and turned my eye; Like all who ever crossed that sight. The next day I wandered again; But only one of two remained. Left unattended, it still lingered; While the other one got wiped away. Our gates shuddered as a woman cried; Begging for alms, more for her child. And I looked past and turned my eye; like all who ever crossed that sight. And I’ve seen barefoot kids on streets; With their misery on their sleeves. Offering toys and tales unsung; As I continued to stare up front. ‘It’s all an act, you can’t fall for the trick’ But the act itself is the suffering. We ignore the evident pleas and cries, But praise those with a benevolent eye. I wish to never be that person again; Never to turn my eye and pretend; Like you were just another animal dry; Left unattended under the sky. -To Naomi

now i’m a curious stranger  enchanted by your softness. Let me be a tourist in an unknown store; i’ll be patient in your vastness.   my fingertips glide across volumes. tell me, which one do I choose? I have forever in your world, but find me a beginning worth my muse.   my footsteps echo in this world left empty and ancient. but i’d read you cover to cover; Shaking brown dust off brown titles and ordered pages.   my yellow tulips grow in your grounded brown. like belle in castle; with you, I’d like to find my way  out of this provincial town.

To all those who have helped me, and through that, taught me how to help others. An important tool that I have been trying to learn recently, is the ability to ask for help. I’ll have to admit, there has been quite an intolerable level of feminism fueled independence in me, and I’ve often seen it as a personal failure to 'ask' for help. But I think I’ve lived through that mindset long enough to realize that I am wrong in so many ways. I guess this 'intolerable independence' is the result of our self-help culture, that has vehemently preached that 'the answer lies within us'. And although it is true that the answer does lie within us; I realize asking for help doesn’t really negate that sentence. It only helps you reduce the burden of negative cognitions. And by the end of it all, answers are something that we have to find for ourselves anyway. That being said, receiving good help isn’t easy. A lot us do not know how to respond when someone asks for help, and re...

Parents aren't given the choice on how their kids end up being like. I mean, yes, their choice of mate affects the other set of DNA that influences their baby’s health and personality. But other than that, parents don’t really have a ‘choice’.   But, if given a choice, parents would choose so much. First off, they would definitely choose their kids out of Autism or ADHD. Although we do call them ‘specially abled’, If given a choice parents would rather their kids not have these ‘special abilities’ since it makes life difficult for their child. I might sound politically incorrect, but that’s just how it is.   If given a choice, they’d want their kid to be healthier and less prone to diseases. In the same way, if given a choice, they’d want their kids to be born intelligent, with good memory, with artistic traits, be good at math and linguistics … I mean, nurture can only take them a certain distance, right? Well, what if parents can actually make that choice? What if parent...