Myriad Musings

What’s the word for it? #2

I wish there were words to describe:

Having just the right amount of something. Not too much, not too less.

The terror in anticipation of a big fall when you’re riding a high. Too good to be true, often isn’t.

Having something happen to you that you thought “only happens in movies.” Ready to break into a song and dance, anyone?

Equally valid, polar opposite ways of thought and feeling. Delighted and distraught about moving abroad. That joke was both atrociously offensive and absolutely hilarious, all at once.

The joy of the last but one step. Relishing the hills and vales of the journey so far. Eagerly awaiting the fruits of the sweaty trek. One more class, one more day, and I’ll be done. This time tomorrow.

Garlanded by applause. You bag the prize every participant coveted. Every spectator’s eye on you.

Awkwardly being on the receiving end of a musical “Happy birthday to you..” Yikes. We’ve all been there.

Not knowing what to do after checking off a major goal. Hold on – I don’t have to prepare for this event anymore? Yaay! But, what do I do with all my time now?

Knowing you should stop but not being able to. One more song. One more minute on the internet. One last page before I turn off the lights. Oops, it’s morning.

Breaking into fits of laughter at the most inopportune times. Don’t give away the prank. Keep a straight face throughout your presentation. Please, not at a funeral.

Tripping and falling on flat surfaces. Every time.

Knowing something in your bones with no factual evidence to back it up. How can you be so sure? Because- I just know.

When “your day” comes around. All of a sudden, you’re the Scrabble king. Your bat solely secures sixes and fours. You’re psychic. Today, the wind’s on your side.

Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

(Part 2)

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Poetry

Blinders: Poem

An old poem I’d scribbled in a notebook from years ago:

Your eyes set, chin determined

You wrangle to break away

But the chains don’t come off

For it is my soul you’ve in a stranglehold

Still a soldier, different this time

The arms you take up are in self-defence

You rip my pleas apart, puncture my trembling heart

Cut me again, again- to ascertain

you can still make me bleed

Every drop I spill is your elixir of strength

Your armour thickens

Your eyes bless me no more

They smoke and spew hatred

I can’t inhale, I can’t escape

A furious Greek God punitive

You become human once again.
Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

This is about idealising someone only to realise with time that they’re as fallible as anyone, if you’re done benefiting them or you get on their wrong side.

 

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Myriad Musings

What’s the word for it?

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Have you ever felt something so fascinatingly specific that you recognize the feeling instantly when it next arrives?

You rush to find the perfect word to describe it, surely it’s at the tip of your tongue – only to realize that it doesn’t exist. At least not in this language.

I wish there were words to describe:

Gathering courage to finally feel comfortable about attempting something, way beyond your comfort zone. A wallflower’s first public speech. Adorning those dance shoes despite having two left feet.

Feeling inspired and empowered enough by another’s joyful success to put yourself out there. Taking vocal lessons after listening to the two-year-old wonder. Diving headfirst into your own passions after your friend’s foreign land fairytale.

Relief of never having to do something heavy, ever again. Phew. Remember when you ripped your board exam hall tickets apart and grinned ear-to-ear?

Celebrating the firsts. Your first blog. Your first bicycle ride after the support wheels came off. Learning the first sentence in an alien language.

Embellishing a silly detail because you fear being judged for the truth. Exaggerating your height on a dating profile or throwing in an extra couple of interests on your resume, for good measure. Wink.

Desire to dwell in the world of a book, a movie, a play; inhabit the life of a fictional character or reside in a real-life hero. I’m still waiting for my Hogwarts acceptance letter.

Being an awkward liar, all-too-obvious. Conversely, when you excuse someone’s apparent lies to protect them from embarrassment. Your sincere head-nods to children’s lies so they can save face.

Laughing till it hurts, jumping for joy or shedding real tears about an imaginary situation that never unfolded in reality.

An image that you can’t stop seeing every time you close your eyes. Every mathematical formula when you’ve been crunching numbers too long, or that terrifying frame from a horror movie that refuses to let you sleep.

Palpably awkward experiences, where you’re beseechingly looking at the ground, hoping you’d be swallowed in. Running into an old boss. Wardrobe malfunction in a grandiose gathering. Forgetting the lines to a song as you perform, right before your Lady Gaga moment.

Delight that floods when you finally fulfil a craving or a dream. Celebratorily eating ice cream at 2 a.m. Buying the instrument you’ve been diligently saving up for.

Absolute painful certainty that something is crawling on your skin. You thoroughly check and recheck every inch to assuringly find no real reason to cringe.

Clarity about a situation from ages ago, attained after learning a critical piece of information. A head-scratcher then. Now, the puzzle fits.

Jubilation when things unfold astonishingly well, surpassing your wildest dreams. A perfect score in a mind-numbing video game. The outpour of enthusiasm for your fresh ideas. The happiest guests relishing your delightful servings.
Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

(Part 1)

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Poetry

Dear water

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Wash the weight off of me,
drench my fears,
drown my inadequacies,
dampen any hatred,
sink every self-doubt,
soak my reservations,
swamp any negative intent,
submerge the bundles of pain,
flush away all falsehood,
rinse stains of my sins away.

Trickle in sweet smiles,
spray me with playfulness,
swim with abandon into my soul,
shower me with content,
bathe me in light,
rain in abundance,
flood hope into my heart,
stream joy into my being,
splash me with a dash of wonder,
immerse me in your fluid dance,
as I plunge into new adventures,
Let’s sail together, an alien cruise.

Drink to
waves of versatility
springs of satedness
puddles of patient progress
fountains of incisive intellect
creeks of creativity
brooks of buoyancy
ponds of treasured ideas
lakes of loving-kindness
rivers of resplendence
seas and oceans of serendipity.

Dear water,
With a drop of your luck,
a dribble of my hard work,
I’ll paddle through hell,
the way I wade through heaven.
Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

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Myriad Musings

The writer’s dream

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I dreamed of writing something beautiful.

A perfect piece, in calligraphic writing.

With every t slashed and every i dotted, with no disheartened strikes and no irate ink blotches.

A piece that gently embraces the poetry of punctuation and the rhythm of line breaks.

Where the beginning, the middle and the end, mesh and flow with sing-song continuity.

A brand-new topic with wholesome ideas to sharpen the sword of the reader’s mind.

Where just the right amount of curiosity is evoked and the knotted clues unravel, in the style of ballet spins.

A train of thought, where every metaphor leads to the next stop.

An untraversed path, and the novelty it brings.

A piece that is the writer’s dream and the reader’s release, with its fresh breath of air.

I dreamed of writing something beautiful, and I ended up here.

Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

Writer’s note: Chasing an ideal leaves us in limbo, as the shadow of the “perfect” is a giant blockade to progress in our path. So, forget the end product. It is the enlivening journey that truly renders joy.

This post was inspired by the fact that I put a lot of pressure on myself to write a really good post because I’m posting here after so long. Then, I realised that the writeup isn’t my dream. Writing is. 

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Poetry

Song: Poem

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Your laughter
A Beethoven’s symphony

Thunder of anger
A siren call

When your face falls
A dirge drones on

Quivers of your soul
An animal’s cry for help

Swaying footsteps
A bird’s morn song

Your melodic whistle
A soothing lullaby

Flowing stream of words
The tune to my heartbeat

Your silly mood swings
The switch between
melody and cacophony

Whatever the sound
When you are the source
It’s all music to my ears
Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

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Poetry

Grey: Poem

Sidlak#3
Sidlak: A five line poem composed of 3-5-7-9 syllables and the last line (without restrictions on syllables) indicates a colour that sums up the authors’ feelings and the spirit of the poem.

 

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The moon’s welts

reflect a beaten

broken world of hapless sins

Yet there’s hope- hints of white glint amidst

the grey globe of today

Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

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Myriad Musings

Who are you today?

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Who are you today?

I often wonder

Have you geared up to tackle blunt realities or are you still clouded by conspiracy theories?

Are you still a cosy armchair expert or are you jumping into the field and getting your hands dirty?

Is your full-time job what you’d like to do in leisure? Perhaps, you published the comics, that the seven-year-old you unleashed on walls and chart paper alike.

If genetics wins the Nature vs Nurture debate, then perhaps you’ve found your safe haven in education. I bet you’re raising hell by inspiring your students to rebel.

I hope you’ve embraced your awkward self and still happily flail on the dance floor, fumble song lyrics and stay wary of glass.

I pray you still get lost, every now and then, and go through a memorable adventure to find your way back. Who knows? Maybe those days are long gone and you’ve turned into a visuospatial whiz now.

Do you still talk in your sleep, rush to the sports section in the newspaper and like your coffee strong?

Is your sense of smell still your superpower? I can imagine your distasteful glance when you sniff out spoilt milk in the kitchen, all the way from the terrace.

Does your mind still get its flipflops done by solving puzzles on the commute to work? I picture you multitasking, with your enthusiastic ambidexterity.

I can’t see a bumbling play pal strapping on the boots of parenthood, but enough time has passed for you to build a sweet home and a sweeter family.

I wonder if you’re saving the world, one brick at a time like you always told me you would. You tend to spring into action when it comes to charity.

I know you mastered many a foreign tongue to visit alien lands across the globe. Are you happily experiencing a different city every day? Perhaps, that’s why you’ve never returned home.

Can you imagine, in the world where everyone seems to know everyone, we managed to lose touch and stay lost?

Well, I found the suspense we were looking for in the detective novels we sprinted across. I’ve replaced them with my wondering about you, which is a consistent source of thrill.

At the end of my guessing games, I always come to the same conclusion:

No matter who you are today, I wish you were around.

Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

Goals: To introduce a third person to the reader through an ambiguous, possibly unstable author.

Offer the reader enough space to determine what to believe and what not to, so as to build a caricature of the third party, who may entirely be a figment of the author’s imagination.

To instil a sense of nostalgia, melancholy and loss where ‘loss’ could mean a parting of ways or a more permanent separation, like death.

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Poetry

Picture perfect : Poem

My glowing skin
Hides many pain patches
Carefully concealed

I’ve diminished my bruises
with a deft makeup brush

My delicate stride
Protects boils under my feet

Ringing slaps
silent under my
Silver anklets

Ridges of injustice
Remain unmasked
Under my trendy skirts

Marks of madness
Missed by neon fashions

Shivers zipped safe under
Extra large sweaters

Evidence of blue blows
Lurk under my fingernails

My red handshakes
Hide bloody burns
within intersecting palm lines

Alien thumb prints
Adorned by
Awkwardly angled bangles

The pull of power
Pinned within
Pretty rubber bands

The creases of my cuts
Spring out in my curls
Subtle resilience against soft hits

Feverish injuries
Are folded under my tongue

Salty tears stopped under contact lenses
Pink bruises pinioned under
Porcelain hugs

Muted shrieks surrender
to the rhythms of a cruel clock

My full smiles
Compensate for
Crooked teeth

The band-aid strip
Suckles my swollen wound
Silencing protest
Offering false comfort
Will you please rip it off

So I can scream

Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

My posting has been a little sporadic due to technological and medical issues and may continue to be until the end of June. Thank you for understanding. 

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Myriad Musings

Meeting monsters

 

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I seem to have an inexplicable desire for pain.

More than curiosity. More than fascination. A strange craving, almost.

The way you’d try your hand at a spicier cuisine or experiment with a new hobby, to test your limits.

Perhaps, it’s my ardent interest in Psychology (one of my majors).

Maybe it stems from my belief that I am truly alive when I experience the A-Z of emotions in palpable intensities.

Or is the source subconscious guilt which makes pain feel right, even relieving?

I play with pain, the way a child blows air into balloons until the loud pop!

I am my own rubber band. I fiddle, pull and observe to see how far I can stretch, until the snap.

The breaking point is yet to be found.

Maybe, the reward is in that after feeling gutted, tortured, confused, I can surface up and claim, “That wasn’t so bad.”

We treat certain parts of ourselves as inner graveyards, with unimaginable ghosts.

Meant for paying an occasional, wary visit.

It is freeing to know that the darkness in me is tame in comparison to the illusory demons I suspect I will discover.

Maybe it’s time to invite the monsters under the bed to lay next to us and start a conversation.

You never know. You might just sleep better at night.

Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

 

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