tales for a nebula.

[je suis mauvais pour écrire des lettres d'amour. pardonne mon incapacité]

i hold up the nut candy which is the size of my finger. i have a very strong displeasure for nuts. 

it is a large candy. i will have to break it up to eat it.

it is also sweet, i think. 

i am not a sweet-loving person.

i like spicy things. and sour things.

there are too many Is here.

where do i stop

and where do you begin ?

-

the swing was cold. it was all so cold. i wonder why i did not feel it. 

i remember the five stars in the sky. i tried counting more, but the sky was foggy.

and i was foggy.

there was a slice across my palm from the broken glassware, and a trail of ginger-tea stuck to my thumb.

i don't remember whether it was you who broke the glass or me.

the want to go home is disquieting. i hope you did not hear it seeping from my ears. the feeling that i do not belong follows me wherever i run. it followed me under the covers as i lay in a foetal position. perhaps, i thought, if i tried really hard, the days would end, and i would end up in a car that takes me home. house. home.

it is a sin to meet my expectations.

when you sat beside the lump under the lep, i wondered whether it would tire you out. whether i would tire you out enough to leave the room.

how on earth do you stay, when all have left ?

why would you ? is there something i have to give you ?

as compensation?

it is an angry comfort. like the injection the blood-report-man sticks into your arm. it is excruciating when it pierces through the layers of flesh, but once the blood streams into the tube, it is all calm. now you are weak. and dizzy. you contemplate letting the stranger take your blood now. but it feels so good, the drain. 

you are a sad vulnerable mess once the needle is taken out. the aftertaste of the experience is bitter.

the weakness shames you,

and you harbor an anger for your father who has paid him to do it.

-

the drive is always sad. whether it is a long, tiring one with loads of roadsickness, or a comparatively shorter one, both without you.

some writers have a habit of writing stories with whatever words they can find.

is it a disease ? 

the red beads glinted in the light, and for the first time, you had made me feel guilt.

for stealing it.

for stealing you.

for stealing experiences,

none of which belonged to me.

every minute you reminded me of it.

i think thieves like me find incentive to lift things that are harder to get. things that more than often, do not want them.

you might as well have called me a thief.

i went silent.

and slowly took the ornament off my hand.

put my head against the glass window, closed my eyes to see the road running outside.

-

हो शीश-महल ना मुझको सुहाए 

तुझ संग सुखी रोटी भाए 

मन मस्त मगन मन मस्त मगन

 बस तेरा नाम दोहराए

-

touch is human. touch is expensive. 

i speak for myself, when i say this.

it sickens me when people touch me. it burns into places they cannot see. 

it was vile when i was touched. every time it was repulsive.

i think something is wrong with me.

except, there was a time where i rested against someone, and their hand crept into mine. 

that touch costed me my sanity.

i realised, that people craved an instant touch. they did not think like me. so, rather than writing to them explaining, and in turn disappointing them, i let them do whatever gave them joy.

i was used to disassociating.

i was used to giving away touch for free.

i was used to betraying my own beliefs.

i wondered if i had betrayed my faith that night. 

i wondered if i had stolen something i would never be able to pay for.

the sarnaist touched the girl like she was as gentle as the leaves in the wind, like she was the first flower of spring, let her flow like the water gushes through riverines.

that's how she knows religion has life.

the sarnaist showed her what touch meant. how expensive it was. how delicate it was.

you scare me. in ways that is still a mystery to me.

you scare me in ways that pulls me back to you.

-

when i close my eyes, i see the orange, teal, red, yellow of your lights.

these are the colours of sleep.

when i close my eyes, i can hear you humming the first few lines 

that arizona sky

burnin' in your eyes

it's buried in my soul

like california gold-

when i close my eyes, i can see the boats on the ghat, and the chants of the people around us.

and you rest your head on me, refuting my point on the idiosyncratic nature of religion.

that is perhaps the closest to god, i have ever been.

my heart hides itself in you. how misbehaved it is.

-

अपने ही रंग में मुझको रंग दे

धीमे-धीमे रंग में मुझको रंग दे

सौंधे-सौंधे रंग में मुझको रंग दे

रंग दे ना, रंग दे ना, रंग दे ना

-

the angry tears are not a good look for me. the uniform is splattered with paint. you do not speak to me, and i have no idea why. and i get furious over nothing. i find it pathetic how i look back expecting you to rush in, say god i'm so sorry i was so caught up in all of it. i take a deep breath and i can tell my emotions are erratic. my body begs to scream. at you. at everything.

i spot you sitting with a girl, making conversation, like i do not exist. 

i look for my friends, but they're all haywire. sitting with their own little groups.

i feel small.

i feel alien.

i feel unwanted.

i want to go home again.

i brush up the self esteem that pities me, and i walk up to you. the fact that i don't belong here rings in my ears, and i might cry any minute. i ask to speak to you. i can hear my voice cracking. 

this is not a good look for me.

you are dismissive.

my heart is breaking. i can hear it break. slowly. maniacally.

this is pathetic.

sometimes i feel like a stray dog. actually most of the time now.

i look down at my shoes. anywhere else has too many people. 

i tell you that it is alright. that you can stay wherever you'd like. 

my feeble attempt at a boundary angers you.

your anger resembles the one my father has. 

it frightens me into silence. into acceptance. 

you don't understand me. you reprimand. 

i crawl into a space beside my friend, trying to digest myself as small as possible. it is embarrassing, i say, when i notice the splotches of tears on the navy-grey skirt.

god, i ask myself, how low can you go, just to feel something ?

i apologise to you.

i have never hated something so much. 

i tear up the goddamn bookmark.

it would have ended up the trash anyway.

maybe it is because the bookmark is the only thing i can direct my quiet fury towards.

-

नी मैं रज्ज रज्ज हिजर मनावा 

नी मैं खुद तो रूस मुरझावा 

नी मैं रज्ज रज्ज हिजर मनावा 

नी मैं खुद तो रूस मुरझावा 

कल्ली भीड़ च बैठी

 तेरी पीड ले बैठी,

 रूसेया रांझा वे मेरा

 मैं वी कम ना ऐठी

-

the thermocol is not an adequate imitation for snow, but i laugh anyways. there are too many reflections of us all around. the christmas tree covers only one. i hand you a tree bobble that resembles a present, and ask you to open it. 

the foam box inside is disappointing, but you are content somehow.

we walk past a colourful store, that has tried to give the indian culture a more westernized appeal

but it delights you in the littlest of ways.

i smile, and make a mental note to get you something from there.

soon.

-

when we had parties at home, my father would come down to my room very late and pat my head, which was nothing but affection handed out as charity. i, took whatever i could off the knife he held forward.

his breath smelled like alcohol and cigarettes.

on the terrace, the boy held a cigarette as if he had the world's burden on his shoulders. ironic.

the air smelled like cigarettes.

the small room smelled of stale marijuana smoke and the glass bowl on the bed held cigarette ashes, and the uncle looked at me with his droopy eyes.

the verandah smells like smoke.

when i first felt your smoke in the air, the smell hits home.

i don't hate it.

i don't, i swear.

i don't hate things based on their conscientious value.

it just hit home, and home wasn't a very nice place to be.

my heart drops when you write the things i read. i stop for a while. 

you don't want to anyways. no, god no. why won't you understand ? why don't you see ?

i wasn't serious when i said it, i swear.

you realize you're manipulating me right ? 

i am stupid at times. i am stupid, like i was stupid with her. and with him. and with everybody else.

god you make me feel like i'm an idiot.

but i can't get angry. not at you. not anymore.

how could you ?

you make me cry.

but it isn't what you say that kills me. it's that you don't know who i am. at all.

you have me totally wrong.

and that makes me feel horrible.

an hour later, you are fine again. and i'm hearing about your day.

 does my illness justify me too ?

if you were a waiting room, i'd never see a doctor. i'd sit with a first aid kit and bleed.

-

i wonder if you think whether i gradient into my parents way too often.

i do do it.

i agree.

it is intangible their presence in me. 

i don't think i can obliterate it just yet, i don't know how to.

if i try, i might kill myself.

would you like an apology orange instead ?

-

i sit across you from the table and i cannot stop smiling. what have you done to me ? even after all this time, i get nervous around you. 

has time made me see past the things i am scared of ? familiarity is dangerous.

you put our phones away to the other table. i don't even notice :)

you speak of me as if i am from some book you've read before. like i'm your favourite season. like autumn.

where the leaves only know how to fall. 

just like you.

where the leaves are a crisp brown 

like the eyes i wander in.

the eyes that gaze at me when i look away.

where the skies are a gentle pink when the sun has just set

like your lips.

i remember how you kiss me as the world melts in the background. 

how you kiss every inch that i cannot look at.

i wonder how deep this love goes.

i wonder if this will kill us both.

-

ओ मेरे सोह्णेया वे

 छढ़ सारी गलियाँ मैं 

नाल तेरे तुर चलेया मैं

 ले चल मुझको दुनिया से तू दूर

 चोरी-चोरी जद तैनू तकेया मैं 

खुद को संभाल ना सकेय मैं 

चढ़ गया सजना तेरा ये फितूर

-

it is the horizon between morning and night,

and i run across the dewy grass,

after a heart that has fallen in too deep.

i look back at you, beckoning you to follow me.

we must be very silent

for the world is fast asleep. 

you run after me 

both barefoot.

it is frigid, 

but the cold does not get to us anymore.

i sit on a roundabout, and you smile at me.

we are such kids.

the playground is not like it is in the morning.

you look at a girl who is discovering the world for the first time.

it is heaven in that moment.

when i kiss you.

in that moment, it's just us.

you are a different person when it's just us.

my love knows no bounds for you anymore.

is that bad ?

-

तुम हो मेरे लिए मेरे लिए हो तुम यूँ ख़ुद को मैं हार गया तुम को

 तुमको मैं जीता हूँ

-

all the hurt in the world seems worth it for you.

all the oceans and seas envy how deep my love runs for you.

only you.

-

                                                                 a room of our own.