Mystic Land

Nobody tells you goodbyes are contagious.
You don’t want it but eventually, it gets you.
You catch a cold. You never wanted it in the first place but you finally embrace it, calling it a sick day and resting it out. Pulling a blanket over your head and leaving the world for tomorrow to deal with.

When you start learning there is a phrase that can get people rid of you, and you of some by dropping frosty flakes of texts or whizz of parting through stone-cold faces, or sometimes with no preamble at all, you realise it’s just a beginning. It goes from one to another.

There are going to be many farewells; willingly or unwillingly and you’d take a day off, pull a blanket of smile over your face and talk to your colleague complaining about the headache you can’t talk much about and probably, will see them tomorrow or the day after.


©kanikachugh

I pick up my blanket.
I fold it in the neatest layers.
A corner peeks out.
I cuss at it.
The alleged reason for of all my frustration.
I fold it again.
Elegantly like I am being watched.
With soft hands as though
draping an infant.
I pour some tea from disheveled
kettle with lilies painted on it
similar to what my mother used to paint
but with a better sense
and an artistic thing, you know.
The one where you give an apple to them
and they charm you into thinking you entered orchards.
Then appreciating their own work with a raised eyebrow.

An artist who knows his/her
imagination knows no bounds
and isn’t held back by anything
is oh, so tempting.

I remove stain from
the shoes that ever goes out.
And yell at bees claiming
my fruits as their sweet jelly occasions.
Why do I do it?
I ask my shallow self.
She says I fall in love too easily
and fall out way sooner.
The souls roaming around
possessed by the clock-spirits
wear a band with a dial
and say they don’t have time to
romance with life like I do.

The first time I held my
vintage kettle from a flea shop
I was reminded of my cheap taste.
The time I conversed with a bee
hovering around, mystifying me
I was abhorred for living too much
in my dreamland.

So currently, I am living
in the time where I have fallen out of everything.
Like everyone else.
But I don’t give in easily too,
like everyone else.

I cook.
I clean.
Make myself some beguiling pasta
Slip into my revolting shorts
and switch on a motion picture
with trumpets and violins as my guards
against reality no one knows how to cope with.
I slowly drift into the intellectual arms of
great writers and artists.
Kissing away the manly lines
dancing through picturesque alleys
and falling in love with the existence
of mine, of theirs.

I knew what had happened to me.
I don’t do well without love.

©kanikachugh

Make way for your scooped ice-creams
and travel tickets to the farther lands.
Pluck the prettiest arrow
and unleash it on your bulging dreams.
Take chances rather trembling,
capture portraits of the strays,
open eyes in the salty water,
wear bikinis in June,
drink sherbet in winters.

The sinners in the world
would anchor you down,
The inflammation in your heart
will put you under the casket.
They make you feel the need for wheelchairs
but you got to stand straight up on your feet.

Prepare to wear your dark bad-ass glasses
befriend the black cats, defy the 13(s),
move away from half-real people.
Map out your steps
bite back the distress
and have no mercy
for the dead past.

November is hovering over
like mistletoe on Halloween.
Kiss the one you love the most,
make love to what sparkles your eyes,
hold a book, wear the skin of the
character you like.
But, don’t let go of your dreams.

Words are like paperweights
weighing down the speeches of peace against war.

Words are the crutches of dry efforts
that hop on its rubber self to be loud.

Words are the stagnant headache that forgets
its way out and gets sewed at the lips.

Words are those identical miracles
one uses to unwrap hearts like opened palms;
ready to receive.

Words are the skin and bone of a devil
that sticks to your tongue, conflictingly, making it more flexible.

Words are those crashing dreams of a person
changing sides on his death bed; a listener he awaits.

Words are those failed bobbing of head
when you give up a thing (or person) you love the most,
in the name of sacrifices.

Words (for some) are afraid to be out
in broad day light.
Brute forces follow it
like misunderstandings,
misinterpretation and gravity
possesses them faster than anything.

Those polysyllable touch the
dust way sooner than the ears.
Words are that boldness in bones
tucked under the fragility of breath
that can prevent a heart from rusting
or ambush it for it to bleed profusely.

So, I intend to use it wisely.

I touched 30
2 years ago
this day.
Age-shaming much?
No way!!
it’s the media and ads
that live in a fearful world,
so they scare others too.
But the questions deserving
perfect eye-rolls and facepalms
always stand in a hungry queue
“Oh! You are 30 something?
you look so young.”
Someone please tell them.
“Darling, 30 is young”
“Why you aren’t getting married?”
Why, because ring in my fingers
and a toddler on my waist
is the only way
to complete me?
Sorry to have a bubble bursted
but I’m not society’s
Life planning math workbook
or biological ticking bomb
that defines my worth
by following some bully timelines.
I wore a cape of womanhood
after so many frostbitten scuffles
and relentless struggles
that now it graces my flesh and bones.
that’s quite enough to be the last
piece of my life’s puzzle.

Journey of a
timid 6-year-old
trying to identify
her father
in a star, he said
he would look it
down from there,
to becoming a woman
who saw her
mother churning herself
and tending to her lost kid
with 3 shifts under her wing;
All this unchained a treasure
I don’t ever want to part with.

My twenties
were a wastral
in terms of people
I invested in.
I let my
innocence and
ignorance turn
alarming snoozes
into blazing red flags
of friendship
that assassinated
my self-confidence.
But, now I know
leaving toxicity
while it swirl
in a whirlpool
of blame games,
is not just okay
but a sign of
strength; of not
justifying self
for the smallest things.

I am finally
In a better place
mentally, psychologically, financially
yet they want to find a manicured
other-half to see me ‘settled’.
They say the world is changing
I’d say it always changes
but on the surface
because they don’t dare dip themselves
amidst broken layers of depth,
so ignorantly, add some
‘must(s)’ in a women’s life.

I know It’s the smallest feat
but if you ask me
I am proud I got to know myself.
I know what I am now
I know what I want
My passion dances on
my eyeballs with a clear vision.
I don’t feel like that rusty
old book at the corner of the shelf
no one picks up to read, anymore.
I am that freshness
of a newly opened
pickle jar that
instantly fills the surrounding
with its aroma.
I’m now the potpourri
of self- reliance I learned
over the past years
and the kindness
I had been carrying
since the childhood.
I’m those 32 no stones left unturned
whose efforts made
people get inspired.
Believe me,
there is no expiration date
to learn something new

I have accepted the fact
It’s not easy finding
metaphors for self
while I blacken the white
pages with their praises,
accomplishments, triumphs.
But from now onwards
I’d audaciously
write about my self
because no one writes
about the writers
and I’m here to
break the wheel.

At last, if you want to
sway with yourself
listen to
“It’s hard to be a woman”
From Something in the Rain 😉
I am just attracted to that song.


©kanikachugh

Have you ever drowned in order to survive?
Ever been breathless in your placidness?
Trying to find your meaning in this lost world,
with such desparate optimism
with no concerns of tautologies or oxymorons.
But you are intentionally trapped
in a non-familiar family
under a limited sky of thoughts
with a somehow-fixed broken heart,
with silent roars,
forced choices,
like a living tablecloth
that protect stains
keeps a dull shine,
overused but not paid heed.
You are growing
towards nothing
just like Sun
rising to finally set.

To
the Azure sky that never abandons me

They asked me to use a limited space
as though my succinct style would do
justice to your illustrated beauty.
But every day, without fail,
I tilt my head, lift a gentle frame
and scoop out your cotton pieces
to save it in my ombre gallery.
I know you look back at me
when my eyes celebrate you.


from
the one who dreams of garnishing the blue yonder with words but fails.

A thought,
A random,
quarter past midnight thought.
What if we met earlier?
what if we met when we were kids?
a clean slate and a clear conscience bearers.
Not burning in Spotify hot-spots
but saving a seat in a school van.
Not caught up in turmoils of 9-5
but weaving fairy tales over sandwich lunches.
Not a seductive calling of clasping hands in malls
but a sweaty parade and you fetching water for me.
Not decorating the space with a prideful succulent
but planting a plum sapling with demure hands and azure eyes.

It slits open my heart
over a shadowed past
without its existence.
From teacups
to popcorn dates,
From Feburary winters
to Christmas knocks,
years got reduced
to illusionary hours
and woes to willful laughter.
My breakfast table,
those terrace railings,
that chair by the windowpane,
even my swaying
curtains got used to
to your touch.
Now they get anxious
in graveyard silence
like a pet waiting
for its Master
after the day ends,
only the day here
has infinite, cruel hours.

A thought knackers me.
Would we have been any different
if we met as children?
Mettlesome bull-headed(s)
who didn’t learn
there is a phrase
called ‘let-go’
May be then we
would have tried
one more time
and could
catch our hearts
mid-air before
falling and getting broken.

A thought I have
with a spring heart
around blue winters.

©kanikachugh