Myriad Musings

Strained

The strain remained, refusing to vanish like a particularly hard-to-dislodge guava seed in my tooth. Pain. Strain. Remain. I played with the words in my head, as though the rhyme would resound laughter amidst the bleakness of a lost battle.

The texts had tumbled, like the slip of a juggler’s hands. Only that the balls now were fired rapidly back at me. I lit the fire and I burnt in it. Every time.

His text would creep in tomorrow, day after. A reminder of the mess. Of what was lost and gone. I’d be forced to put forth another attempt at war but my armoury would be tucked safely under the bed and I’d perhaps be sleeping when his text arrives.

Unwelcome. Unnecessary. A belated ointment for an old wound. A half-hearted rush of concern to make up for the delay in response, as the air would stink of thick, sweaty drops of apology. A stench that we seemed to carry every time we met.

He’d try to plaster the walls he broke and stitch the open wounds, wounds that he opened, sometimes with an intricate compass, other times with a carefully misplaced scythe.

Hatred would gush and love would bubble. I’d multiply the bubbles and send it his way, quick pecks on his indifferent cheeks: Kindness measured, so it’s not too much or too less but just right lest he rejects it for its overwhelming nature.

I’d swallow the hatred and reopen my old wounds, using only scythes with no place for compasses. Scythes he’s given me from unforgettable memories of being pushed into an abyss, always willing to jump, but never wishing for it.

He’s throw tidbits with the air of a man who throws pellets of puffed rice to the desperate fish at sea- waiting, wanting, willing, wishing- and walk away huffily with a puffed up chest, his generosity impressing himself. The sour taste of battle blood would sink my palette into pain and the strain would remain.
Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

 

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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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Poetry

Signals- Poem

I say Never Again
You hear Maybe Someday;
I say No twice,
you hear try again.

I say Leave me alone
You think its a call for help;
I beg you for some Me time
You assume I need cheering up.

I don’t know what stereotypes you hold,
or about these “codes” you seem to unfold
And I don’t care.
But don’t you dare
dictate what I mean.

When I paint words, clear and bold,
Simply trust what you’re told.

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Myriad Musings

So I hear ..

You yell at me in fury. You make a big fuss, throw tantrums and hurl accusations. I hear the silent pleas to notice that you’re hurt : pleas muffled under your siren-like screams. It doesn’t escape my ear. I pacify.

You whisper in the language of love to me as we reminisce over sweet nothings. Amidst those hushed, soft sing-song notes, I hear your longing for more, loud and clear. I yield.

There are times when your tone is high and squeaky. In the fluctuating fervour of your frenzy, I hear non-negotiable orders for things to be done just right. I consent.

When sentences fall out of you in measured monotones, I feel the facade of strength you erect to appear matter-of-fact and unfazed. Yet, I can’t help but hear the shrieks of agony calling out for help. I comply.

You’re gone, only for the fortnight, and there is a spooky stillness enslaving the air. The roads we take and the home we made are resonant reminders that recite scintillating stories of you. Memories abound, I’m surrounded by your sound. Isn’t it funny that your volume becomes too vociferous for me, only in the silence you set free ?

WordPress Daily prompt : Volume

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Myriad Musings

Too much to take

You craved for cake the other day. I proudly served you a piece with brownie, brioche and all that I bake.

Oh ! Remember the day you whispered about a dream ? A dream on the lake wrapped under a starry night. We set sail in seas with blessed breeze, safe under the cozy cover of the moonbeams.

You beseeched me to take a wary step into the dark corners of my being and tap a little secret for the night. It instead became a night of secrets as I let you wander all over, showing you my tunnels with the same welcome with which I display my bridges. Elated you were about the unforeseen fortune !

When you felt threatened in the least, I ran to be the army you needed. It was the engulfing embrace you noticed and cherished, but you missed the fierce spear I had sharpened to sear your ghosts.

I was the safety blanket which you wore like a cloak of invincibility, until you wanted a new colour. You see, I was neon orange and you couldn’t handle the force of me. You wanted sober. Faded. So you could feel like the saviour.

By then, you’d explored my islands, plateaus and valleys and you wanted to go to a different country. Where there would be more slush and less sand, so you feel like the better man. Alas, I realised beauty can induce fear only when you were taken aback by my equally agreeable hills and dales.

So, I got you tickets to a faraway dream and waved farewell when your flight soared high. I found it strange that the reason you flew without me was I “gave you too much”. Little did you realise that it wasn’t the strokes of the painting that were too loud but the interpreter’s eyes that were sore.

Soon, you may tire of the treasures the other nations bear and all you would want will be to come back home. You’d point out your wounds the size of my mole and I’d be reminded of the monsters under your bed. So you’ll ask for a bandaid and I’ll throw in a brownie, a blanket and a blissful lullaby. As I sing you to sleep, make your choice.

For I’m in or out, you’ll never find me lingering by the door. I don’t dole out my affections in portions and titbits. If you’re asking from me, you’re always asking for more.

WordPress Daily prompt : Portion

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