The lost all gather
at the same door as I.
They shout, yell and cry.
Praise and tell lies.
To be taken in.
To be cared for.
To be chosen.
To be looked at, even once.
Do they also feel smaller
for standing here and waiting,
for asking things whose void eats you up.
that has a fondness, an appetite
for the ones who can’t unlearn caring.
Which becomes bigger
feasting on the silent phone,
on unifinished conversations,
on the hollow rumours, on the dirt on your name,
smeared by people
who know better
but continue to do worse.
The void for things,
that even when attained,
outgrows the want that creates it.
Is there anyone
who has got what he asked
and stopped asking for more.
Who has found himself
by asking and pleading for acceptance,
by being nice and patient,
by cutting themselves up
to fit the template
of someone else’s ever growing void.
She looks at the clock.
The time tells
in 4 hours her husband has to leave,
she woke up too soon.
She wakes up and looks at the clock again.
In 20 minutes he will need his daily tea,
he sounds bitter all day
if it is not the first thing he sees.
She will have minutes to cook what he likes,
to check his ironed clothes and polished shoes.
Few more seconds till the door closes
leaving her in his house,
surrounded by his belongings,
and with the clock that has no plans for her.
and sits till she can’t feel this sting.
She looks at clock once again.
9 hours more for him to come back.
“You’ve become an accomplice in your own annihilation and there is nothing you can do about it. Everything you do closes a door somewhere ahead of you. And finally there is only one door left.”
― Cormac McCarthy
Now I am not sure what this quote exactly makes me feel. But every time I read this, I see in front of me that one door left. It fills me up with a kind of relief and fear at the same time. It is as if every small action of mine will change my life in a drastic ways. It is like choosing a destiny that I cannot see. Irreversible nature of my decision, the narrowing of the world to fewer door, fewer dreams, fewer options is frightening. But it also fills me with a sense of responsibility and control. It feels like a power that I do not know how to put to use, but it is still a power. Like a blind person walking on a minefield, where even having eyes may not be of much help considering the chaos that surrounds me. Even if a portion of choice is in my hand, I do have a say, but not much. I cannot turn back and look at all the doors I can’t go back through. I am just left with that one line I am travelling (many that I can’t), the line my decisions create to that last door, the line we call fate.
I find myself longing to look at the sun
and the morsel of half-cooked food
stays on my tongue
a little bit longer than it should.
The door opens with a sound of crashing waves
and so I know it is you who has come.
With my back to your face,
I smile to myself.
I have kept aside a portion
of this tasteless life for you.
The silent mornings, the passing time,
these aging bones-
don’t seem as bad as it did,
now that you are here.
When my own opinions can’t budge the doors
that are closed on my face,
I run back to these books
which list how to think, what to want.
I do not look for how it is done
I look for what I did wrong.
But my mind is so immune to a good advise
that the words that I read make me sick
even when they could be my medicine.
But I don’t yet know if they are,
cause my wish for a better life fades away
in front of the genuineness my heart demands from me.
there were others as well
who were standing beside me till now,
who loved me, at least liked me.
Surely I am mistaken
that I am abandoned.
There were several houses that fell silent
as my legs lingered on their doorsteps.
There was a sigh of relief as I left.
muffled by my own will to ‘not hear’.
As I went far from them,
their memories and promises
became louder in my head.
Surely I was mistaken.
I make some space on my cluttered desk
for my head to rest its worries.
And I find a string of light
as a keepsake
to take with me when I’m buried.
What else am I going to miss?
There are so many things I miss in life already.
But I can’t make my heart strong enough
to reach out to a life
that I have lived without.
I can’t make myself
go out of this room
open the door to see
the spring that I always dreamt of,
the spring that waits for me outside.
My life is divided into different rooms
as is my heart.
For as long as I remember,
from the time I used to care for decorations
to the time I am too lazy to clean up.
From the moments of sweet solitude by the window
to the clinking glasses and winking eyes.
The room belonged more to them
than to me.
And I often found it unsettling,
as if on a night
when I would be hiding under covers
not knowing what to fear,
someone would knock at the door
and with that knock, would come a pair of shoes
and a set of clothes, holding a person
whose face, motive or aim
would soon be inconsequential.
And slowly she would drag me
out of each room,
snatching away each memory that she touched,
knocking down my bookcases filled with my escape,
tearing away the wallpapers
behind which I hid my unvoiced cries.
The doors would be shut on my face,
leaving me out in a storm on a moonless night,
leaving me alone to face all that I didn’t know of
taking away all that I know.
The doors that I look for
are just excuses to wander.
Are lies that give meaning to meaningless.
Everyone needs to know “why”.
The reason to put us on their map
of the sanity and dependability.
And if we are stripped of these reasons,
the lies we tell each other,
I do not know
how we would understand each other.
These reasons that we invent
and prepare and practice.
So as not to falter
in front of strangers,
in middle of a performance.
If we loose these,
how will we justify
Why we deserve to live well,
Why we deserved to be loved well?
Why our existence is not a failure?