It Feels Good To Write A Song and other feelings

The other day I came across a song called “It feels good to write a song” by Vulfpeck, and it occurred to me that I haven’t written a song in over 2 years, perhaps 3. I used to be able to write freely, words appearing like ether, wafting with ease to complete an entire thought - a mini-story in catchy rhymes, the melody of the hook line that I can still conjure up from memory. I would look at my Notes application with the date of creation of the song, know exactly where I stood in that point in time and smile to myself, as if it was my little secret, my own Eras tour without Taylor Swift. Often times, I would be weeping while writing, feeling huge relief by the final edit, with a lingering pain in my chest. I said what I needed to say, I allowed myself to be vulnerable even if only in private. And I could finally move on to experience more life with renewed enthusiasm and courage. “Who cares if I get hurt, at least I get a song out of it!”, I’d often joke to myself. 

Of late, I’m getting no thoughts, no melodies. I’m getting hurt but birthing no songs. It’s as if music and lyrics have deserted me entirely. How, after I started writing in my teens, does my life not need it anymore? I feel like I’m only flesh and bone with no consciousness, no soul. I sing other people’s songs but I have no inclination to create any of mine. It used to be as natural as breathing itself. Sigh, even my metaphors are clichés. 

I’m not usually one to embed myself deep in existential thought, but this is an entirely new feeling, a rather uncomfortable one. I’m no longer a medium to my feelings, my joy, my frustrations, my sadness. Singing other people’s songs and acting out other people’s words keep me safe, as if my vulnerability is my greatest weakness. I remember when I learnt the word Equanimous, advertised like the most ideal state of being. Now I'm equanimous for all intents and purposes and I'm not thrilled (well...) Or am I simply pretending? Hiding? Not just from others but from my own self?

I recently started training to be an actor. During the 3-day workshop I broke down on all 3 days, like it was the first time in years I was being allowed to be vulnerable without judgment. And I kept apologizing to my instructors and fellow students, joking about being too sensitive, feeling guilty I was taking up too much space and attention with my big exaggerated feelings expressed by my big loud voice, as if minimizing them would be unselfish and more graceful for an older lady such as me. But I got no judgment back, instead I got more space and a greater opportunity to connect with everyone emotionally. 

I am tired of apologizing for feeling a lot, feeling too deeply and pretending to make others comfortable by making myself small. I simply cannot explain myself anymore, I will not. I no longer make space for people who can’t make space for me. 

I am still incredibly wary of opening myself up again, and this post is the most astonishing thing as it is also the first I’m posting on the blog in a long time! This page has been and will always be my one true safe space. And maybe when I get more comfortable, words will flow again, melodies will compose again, songs will birth again. I shall wait for that joy with eagerness. 

Hello from the other siiiiide

Hola! Is it just me, or can we all just not sit with ourselves completely unstimulated anymore? 

Walking outdoors with music in our cans

chilling on the couch with the tv on, even when there's no active viewing

cooking whilst glancing the phone every few minutes

I literally cannot recall the last time I quietly sat on the laptop with only my thoughts, typing away. Oh I missed the sound of tap...tap...tapping of the keys! Being a freelancer as a voice artist also doesn't require me to be spending too much time on the laptop, so this is making me rather uncomfortable. Hmmm...

But have we also become more guarded? I'm pretty sure no one lurks around here anymore, but there's a mental block that has been built nonetheless. Which is strange, because there's absolutely nothing going on in my life that's causing any upheavals (wait..) Back when I still used to write a lot, and had readers, I would get into trouble quite regularly because of what I'd written here. 

Ah, trouble. For all the times I wished for a boring, uneventful life in my 20s, I can't help but wonder - was that time better? (Lord, this was such a Carrie Bradshaw statement! Imagine me being videotaped typing that.)

Is it really more fun while we're struggling at everything, or simply more engaging? Should we sometimes just throw a bomb where we're standing just for fun? 

But...consequences. Those are getting harder to reverse. All this pussyfooting is exhausting. I guess it's just easier to occupy the brain with back-to-back true crime documentaries to transport yourself to a place you can't be, but is oh so dangerous and, titillating? There are no real consequences to being a couch potato, minus the weight gain of course (which can also get pretty real in a few years. Bleckh.)

This desperate need for stability is confusing the hell out of me. Are we trained/conditioned to want it or is emotional safety and security really an essential human requirement for survival? How is one supposed to balance it with the other intense need for excitement? Whatever you do, whatever professional growth, whichever solo travel, experiences, a night out of drinking, there's just no substitute...nothing rejuvenates you like that spark between two unfamiliar people, the NRE. The heavy price of monogamy, is it worth it? I sure hope so. 

Is that why everyone around me is having children, to shake things up? Is that why I'm aiming for the same? I think so. Is that okay to admit? It's fine, you don't have to answer any of these questions. I pay a therapist for that. *wink wink*

The other day my new-mother bestie called me on her way back from work, begging me to part with some gossip, *any* gossip! I told her I wouldn't be trying to make a track on Logic Pro on a Friday evening if I had absolutely anything. I thought to myself - should I create some drama in my life so I can entertain her? It has worked in the past, she usually plays safer than me, but for me always supports "being on your own journey". That's probably why she called. Hoping I had fucked up something else now. This dynamic has worked for us for years, I don't mind. 

But then I also thought - is that how it's going to be when *I* become a mother? I mean, I'm struggling already! Is the "shaking things up" going to backfire? With endless maternal activities of breastfeeding, teaching, feeding, cooking for them, taking them to school, sitting for family poojas and gatherings giving them all kinds of positive experiences without showing an ounce of weakness, not being able to take a day off to sink into our imperfect selves for 18 long years, being so physically drained, you wouldn't know a limb from your libido. How long will I be able to sustain that lie of a life? That pure numbness, will it compound, or will you just settle into it, like subcutaneous fat? Some people are just built for that life. Some, like me, are petrified they will never fit the mould. 

They say - you realise when you have a child that you never even knew what love was before. What did life even look like before this lump? Helllooo, am I supposed to be aspire for a life that makes my current life look redundant?! Why do people say that - I don't know what life was like before my kid!!! 

Well, at least there's one consolation. I think my extreme level of pessimism is purely a defence mechanism, and I discover that things aren't usually as bad as they seem. And who knows what will happen tomorrow? The important thing is to look ahead, keep moving, keep experiencing anything and everything that comes your way. When have I ever known Archita to be boring, to be standing in one place hoping to throw a bomb at the ground beneath her feet? Wish me luck :) 

'til next time, whenever that will be!

The Exchange

When pain is returned with pain 

It, somehow, feels worth it 

An admission of hurt reciprocated 

feels like the most beautiful thing in the world 

The way your brain lights up at every sting 

Every agonising repartee 

The dying butterflies that have some flutter left 

prepares you for a slow funeral… 

Is there a more intense shared human experience? 

A more satisfying closure? 

And after the pain has dissolved 

It metamorphoses into a precious memento of life 

There is so much romance 

in a romance that couldn’t fulfil its destiny 

When pain is returned with indifference 

And silence and emptiness 

That you allowed yourself to grieve 

a person admittedly cold 

It feels like it was all for nothing 

It led to no lessons, no creativity, 

No greater understanding of life 

How very futile 

This blackhole marking a time 

What an unfair exchange! 

Like this verse that will never be acknowledged.

The Visitor

He hides his eyes 

From eyes that pry 

So afraid of losing the life 

he is so afraid of, 

but he denies 

“It’s not bad, it’s not all bad” 

We do not rock the boat we have 

We steer on at constant speed 

If we hit a rock, 

I’ll cover up the bleed 

Stifled by the authority 

Of his nod on an old decree 

He keeps a timid eye out 

for the plenty fish in the sea 

Sits all day with his nets stoic, 

his heart bone-dry 

to catch the next high it begets 

In a series of constant goodbyes 

As I watch him, I realise 

We’re in the same boat 

I’m just in a cleaner disguise 

There’s not a kind word about him anywhere 

But in my arms…he’s sublime 

For I don’t know if I save his life 

Or he ends up saving mine

Nicotine

He lingered on my lips
For about an hour or more
Yes his kisses leave me tingly

Or perhaps it was the nicotine
his cigarette left smeared
to which I am allergic

Sting me again
And again
And again. 

Daayaan-baayaan-daayaan

Suna tha, samajhdaar ko ishaara hi kaafi hai
Par samajhdaaron ko samjhaate samjhaate,
humne apni hi soojh-boojh kho daali hai.

Aaram se baat karein toh hum napunsak
Ladke baat karein toh hum hinsak
Galiyon mein aawaazein uthayein toh hum berozgaar
Pooch toh lijiye Sir ki desh ki yuvaa berozgaar kyun hain!

Sawaal uthaana school ke shikshakon ne sikhaya toh sahi
Par yeh nahi ki sawaal kaunse poonchein,
Jawaab kisse maangein
Hum toh aap hi ki tarah joojh rahe hain iss duniya se har roz
Aapke hazaaron sawaalon ke vistrit jawaab hamare paas nahi
Kyunki hum aapke shikshak ya lok sevak nahi

Kabhi jaati, toh kabhi dharm se darte hain
Kabhi apni insaniyat mein bhi jhaank-ke dekhiye
Abhi bhi ek bus ke jalne ka maatam manaa rahe hain
Ab khoon se sani laash ko dekh aaye sukoon se bhi darriye

Kisi ne haq diya ya nahi, woh sab adhikaar aapne chheen liye
Asli naagrik kaun hai aur kaun nahi, woh nirnaye aap hi ne le liye?
Toh humne bhi aapko bewakoof samajh ke dinner table pe thoda gyaan diya
Chaliye, humne bhi aapko buddhoo samajh ke maaf kiya.

No Apologies

Pray tell me

Why is being heartless

such a virtue 

Feeling,

A weakness

Opening up, 

A vulnerability 

Expressing love,

The ultimate embarrassment.

I said it but not quite,

You heard it but not quite. 

So here it is for your reading (dis)pleasure. 

Love, here I could write an album of sorts

At arm’s length, making four hours worth of small talk

It’s not easy to keep track of your quips, whilst

my body’s as tense as a bowstring

Your well-rehearsed tricks are transparent for miles 

Sure, I’ll pretend to be blind if you’d like

I’m a slave to your wishes, aren’t I, 

a common prisoner of your smiles

When my body finally gives way 

With your slightest touch and

To the twinkle in those eyes

In that moment I don’t care what you think 

I can’t, just can’t hold it in. 

And I shouldn’t be asked

To hold it in. 

Or to get it over with. 

To GET.OVER.IT. 

To...compartmentalise. 

What an awfully cruel word to the unwise. 

You mean it, maybe not quite, but

I see misplaced pride in your eyes. 

As you stare at me as if I’m naíve

I stare back in disbelief, that

I tried to be less human

because evolution asked me to 

because you expected me to

And I let myself be fooled. 

Truth is, 

we weren’t really built that way

Much less me, that I will say

Perhaps I’m the luckiest girl in the world

to have felt and pained and loved and lost

By letting myself take the long, long fall

So 

I’m going to stop apologising for it all.

Keeping up appearances

It’s fine, I’m fine

Keeping up appearances 

is an old friend of mine

He has crashed on my couch

Many times before

Like an unwanted guest I can’t let go

Whenever I step out

He walks right in front of me!

And when I try to speak

He filters my words with his sieve

It’s fine, I’m fine

Keeping up appearances is the pen *and* the paper 

And I’m trapped in my own design

A Truly Histrionic Day

Every revolution, fortunately, starts with only a few
Visionaries amongst commoners who carry the burden of the zoo
Count yourself in and enjoy the ride
The best of you is yet to come...
Resist and defy. 
✊🏼

NOTA!

You’re triggered! but your gun is shooting blanks
Only accustomed to be a yes-man to people up the ranks
You don’t even know what weights to keep to measure your worth
Benchmarking with what’s spoonfed, thinking you’re salt of the earth

So courageous in speaking up, too coward to have an opinion
You’re worse than my father who at least has something he believes in
Blind and misguided you roam the streets like a lion
An emperor with no clothes thinks he’s king of the fucking jungle

Sit down! and exercise your birth right to be silent
Silent is what you are, when you choose to be blind to violence
Your choice to believe in nothing is a privilege you can afford
The saffron terrorists will soon be at your door saying ‘Not anymore! Not anymore!’

The more you poke the sleeping bear, the more she’ll learn to hunt
The more she slides into her armchair to call out your little stunt
Why does her mind bring you such discomfort - because she chose to peep out of the sand?
Enforcing your own insecurity and your inability to face yourself as a man without a plan?

When the time comes, she’ll have little shame and regret
She spoke her truth and did her part,
our world is about to change, you just haven’t seen it yet
You only know how to acquiesce ‘cause when have you ever been brave?
And you still can’t admit you’re wrong, for your strength always lay in your commitment to cave

And if her words don’t sound like they’re coming from a broken heart
Believer her when she says she might be losing sisters and brothers for she can’t manage to play different parts
She’s screaming because who knows how long it will be allowed to go on
You’re still here and reading the lyrics, but do you even understand my twisted love song?

Tell me your stories, ladies!

Seems a little conceited for me to be talking about women empowerment, given our privilege, trust me it does. But it’s taken me a long time to believe that every story has weight, some learning, however facetious and whatever the source.

Not only are some of us economically and socially privileged, we are also fortunate to be born in a time when a woman can speak her truth out loud. We might be trolled for it by insecure people, but once you’ve put your intentions out in the universe, no one can take it away from you. You are stronger just to have spoken. You only need to have faith that there are people who are waiting for your stories - to be heard, to be understood, to be passed on. Whether you’re pre-teen, a college-going student, an intern, a mother, a homemaker, a leader or whatever you choose to be or not-be.

Give yourself a break - remind yourself of how far you’ve come, measure your progress as an individual. It has taken me personally two decades to finally admit to myself that I am becoming more responsible, less judgmental, more anxious yet willing to get help for it. There are no rights or wrongs, no privileged or unprivileged, when we all are just trying to survive and support one another. 

These days we are being viewed under a microscope, constantly having to prove our worth, judged for every action, for imperfect feminism, for choosing to be lazy or irresponsible although those might just be how tired we are of the patriarchy that we realise was never the truth but only thrusted upon us. As women, we have to work even harder to be known for the right things. There are people out there who only want to feel better by putting you down. They’ll gossip about the men you’ve slept with, doubting how you got your promotion, commenting on your weight and body structure, believing you are weak and uni-dimensional. Don’t let them because that's not important, it's not what you are. Most women I personally know are more multi-faceted and courageous than any given man. We’ve had to prove ourselves so much at every step that we ended up scrambling to do everything, and the results are glorious. Be proud of your accomplishments and don't hesitate to share them with everyone. 

I DO NOT say that we need to curate or completely manicure our lives and our stories, but I would rather focus on how Oprah promoted girl education in Africa, how she’s the first self-made female billionaire in the world, than her never-married and never-mothered aspects of her controversial life that has zero bearing on the inspiration that I can derive from a woman in power. 

Find your role models. Be somebody’s role model. Lift up other women. Tell them that even to want to be disobedient is a choice they can make. Lift up women, even the ones you dislike or whose values you absolutely do not agree with. Everyone has had a journey of their own. You don’t have to like it, but accept it. Find a positive thing in every woman you meet. And try to focus on that. 

For now, just tell your story. 

x

Unbox

I tried to look for myself

in one of thirty-four boxes

they carry no labels

no color-coded tapes
no Fragile tags either
perhaps I threw them all away

Maybe I couldn't contain
in just one contraption of cardboard walls
or maybe I was never there
'cuz I couldn't box myself at all

Demystifying

It’s true 

I’m only in love with the idea of love, it feels

love in itself hasn’t quite been broken into

Like brand-new Jimmy Choos

that hurts my heels, makes me bleed

could it be a size too small for me?

Neither will being barefoot be any fun

you watch me, puzzled, at the dry run

take me, winds, toward my salvation, I just

need to be relieved of this fixation

Answer me honestly

why should I even try?

Is grass truly greener on the other side?

what business do I have

within all these reciprocal aberrations,

if love is just a lifeless version of infatuation.

Note to self

I love telling stories. Mostly about myself, to myself. They're too long-winded and filled with immense detail with a million little digressions, ones that imperfectly hop from one timeline to another. (Like the three seasons of Arrested Development!) I don't think anybody will ever be that interested in my past life events, including my own life partner! He'd be crazy to, honestly.

I love retelling stories to myself so I don't forget. Some bits of the innocence of childhood, travails of adolescence, trials and tribulations of the 20s. There's a certain mystique to them. Like they happened to somebody else. Did I truly know the story on the other side of the coin, while I thought Heads was all there was? When I repeat my own life events to myself, it's like I'm having an out of body experience, I'm watching myself be 15 again, be 17 again, be 22 again, be 27 again, all at the same time. Would I have lived those moments differently? Would my life have been different had I, let's say, been more considerate, more aware, more aggressive even?

Sometimes the stories are wonderful, of achievements and of personal victories, funny, even twisted, and I'm gleeful while narrating to self. "Yet another one for the grandkids!", not knowing if the grandkids bit is even happening or not, or whether the grandkids will be able to sit through them or not. Maybe times would have changed and my 'crazy' will be their normal.

Sometimes I get forlorn. Sad that it happened, at times sad that it happened and didn't continue any longer. I pity the emotions I wasted in 2009, I empathize with that girl in 2011 and weep for her. Weep because I can't believe she had to have 2 glasses of wine to put herself to sleep each night, or laugh, because well, isn't it a tad bit laughable? Somehow these stories pierce me a little more. Shouldn't those be the ones for the grandkids instead?

I live my personal one-woman-act each day, with its appropriate blocking and hand & eye gestures unrehearsed and done on the fly in my mirror.

At this point...I think I sound like a lunatic.

Most of my stories will live and die with me. Like all your stories live and will die with you. How do you feel about that?

Refresh

Alternating between different screens 

with the same humdrum of happy faces

These bedroom walls are caving in on me

I’ve been missing so long, 

I’m forgotten in everyone’s good graces.

I can’t remember the sun, the trees, 

the chatter of regular people

What is ‘regular people’?, I wonder

Remind me please, 

a name or a username that wasn’t yours.

Yes! I did notice the rain!

It made me smile for a second there,

that hint of petrich…you’re still unaware

you washed all over me 

yet again 

yet again, maybe it’s time to reconsider

I’m covered in fifty shades of self-shame

Dear God, I no longer wish to romance

these gallons of incremental physical ache.
Take it away, take it away.

As I narrate, she quizzes me, 

between all the concern and the exclaim

Do you think about him a little

Or Refresh in regular, fragmented breaks?

And I say…

Pray tell me,

how many seconds are there in a day.

Muse

Caught red handed in a green silhouette

Covered in tiny raindrops imitating sweat

Watching you nervously, 

all I care about is procuring a new muse

‘Cause I’m exhausted 

carrying criminal words without a noose

You confuse me

amuse, elude and

Misuse me

So won’t you oblige the pen to my right

I promise I won’t even touch you!

But I just might.

easy peasy lemon squeezy

boy, what is the need
to stretch, to pluck; i fall for you
like low hanging fruit

The Purpose

He’s gone

And I can’t remember the last thing I said to him

How long did I not have any words for him?

Besides the vitriol I spewed here in 2012.

I keep telling everybody “He fulfilled his purpose.”

Maybe I’d actually know the purpose he strived for

Had we exchanged real thoughts

If only I tried, not to roll my eyes.  

I wish I could find out-

If he mentally prioritised in his final moments

The agony of pain or

the vacuum of a mute granddaughter. 

You know 

My feelings are just hyperbole at this point 

Weren’t they always?

So am I tearing up because I miss him?

Or is it the guilt

That most days I just don’t have it in me

To be a good person. 

And then one day

I will too just be ashes,

Reduced by the conflagration we call Life,

Flowing down a filthy and incurable “holy” river 

(Perfect for washing away my sins!)

And someone with a fraction of my DNA

Will share their empty words to convey

They can’t remember the last thing they said to me.

Is it not enough?

Is it not enough

To sing to my four walls

The walls have ears too

They hear just because

Is it not enough

A gift was received and nurtured

We’re mother and child forever

So how did it become a burden?

Is it not enough

That I am always happy in its midst

Any heartbreak I can survive

As long as within me it exists

Is it not enough

Or do I too need to wear a dress

Slap on some makeup and rock the mic

Like a dervish possessed?

Is it not enough

That I sing just to hear you say

You are the most beautiful girl in the world

...it always, always makes my day

Danke, dis bald!

I don’t know why it affects me so

my head can’t think straight for the first 24

I know it isn’t love, 

I also know it isn’t platonic, so

Is this just a feverish high of the clandestined?

A secret too inconvenient to reveal

With consequences too exhausting, if I rewind.

I’m not afraid of the future

I gain smile lines with every passing day

It is, verily, of the past sneaking up on me…

Isn’t it all too alluring, the reminder of juvenility?

The moments of weaknesses, a sign of recklessness

A reassurance that youth wasn’t too far behind,

that it can still stay in me, as long as I stay unwise!

Some slip ups I can afford

But not this, not now, not like this

Lest I prove myself right every once in a while

Watch this sceptical angel dining with her own little devil

Who, for dessert, serves a delicious fortune cookie of peril.

Oh, Sweet Mistakes!

You’re going to cost me dearly.

When have I been one to protect myself

From the thrill of a complication?

When have I been one to resist a juicy sin

For I’ve been far too good, 

At least for the sake of percentage calculation.

All I pray for tonight is a good night’s sleep

I’m just biding my hours till the 24th sinks deep

I’ll close my eyes and blind my mind to an uncommitted crime

Perhaps

Until next time.