Myriad Musings

Dear Discomfort

 

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Dear Discomfort,

Puncture my parachute so I find my wings and fly.

Take me away from the outside world so I connect with the person in the mirror.

Cage me in a bubble so I break out of it.

Silence me so I find meaningful things to say when I regain my voice.

Push me into the dark so I find my way through the long nights.

Corner me so I reclaim my space. Violate my space so I erect boundaries.

Hold me close to the ground so my urge to stand tall and proud intensifies.

Bind me tight so I learn to play with knots of limitation.

Hit me when I’m down so I savour the ups when the rollercoaster turns.

Drown me in doubt so I wade towards my survival.

Take away the false shine, so I’m not blinded by glimmer. Snatch a real diamond or two, so I learn its value.

Punch me in the stomach so I learn to stand up for myself.

Lure me into Candyland so I separate fantasy from reality.

Lay me in rock bottom so I look up to the sky.

Pull the ground beneath my feet so I find new legs to stand on.

Stretch me so I know how to reach.

Pin me to the wall so I learn not to beat my fists against it.

Render me weak so I grow to be strong. Leave me helpless so I discover tools to help myself.

Burden me so I’ll relieve myself of some battles.

Drop me out of another’s world so I shoot for the stars in the galaxy.

Throw me in a cesspool of agony so I relish every moment of ‘happy.’

Place me in a well of tears and I’ll cherish every drop of the elixir of joy.

Destroy all that I’ve built so I create a better home for myself.

Erase all that I was so I get to rewrite who I am.

I’ve you to thank for any success, acceptance and progress that has been splashed onto my palette.

Thank you for being my cheerleader. My saviour. My best friend.

Kudos to you for knowing what I need before I do.

I look forward to when you come and visit me next.

Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

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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

I call Shotgun: Poem

I watch the sojourn
of the short hand, the long hand
as I tumble across your tumultuous thoughts
Still a piece in an unfinished puzzle

Am I the emblem of tomorrow?
or the faded legend from yesterday?
One time wonder, an old hit song
To be heard on the radio
To be seen, nowhere

Whims and fancies
keep me company
we play tug of war
I’m both sides
Even when I win, I lose

Dolls fall prey to confusion
when the puppeteer’s mind is unmade
Paused life in paintings
as the palettes change midway

There’s freedom
in being a character
authored by another’s imagination
Oh, The suspense
Am I to be a page? A chapter?
In the novel- or is it?

A star in the night sky
now lighting up screens
It’s all the same
I’m one of many

I expanded my sights
from one round globe
to the two spheres- your eyes
biting off more than I could chew

In my eagerness to call shotgun
I gave up the driver’s seat
to my destiny
Will you swerve left
or steer me right?
Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

 

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Poetry

Woman of my dreams: Poem

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Sand clocks, hourglasses still everywhere
Her swirling shadow
My entranced eyelids

Eyebrows, arches to heaven’s gateway
Pyramids bow, her majestic forehead
Lilac blush lifted cheeks
Seraphic smile stopped heartbeats

Purple diamonds perch on her nose-ring
Ears part, Japanese sensus
Celestial lips, crescents curved
to nature’s drumbeats

Folds of enigmatic curls,
hold truths untold
Ablaze with equal parts fire and water
Golden eyes hiding galactic secrets
leaving mine star-studded

Holy bells chime
petals of laughter spill
roses perch on golden anklets

Bangles, spherical symphonies
sparrows, robins take notes
Finger rings glow
New moon nights

Nape of her neck, treasure chest
Pendants, garlanding her
Trinkets bring together every faith

Graceful shoulders
anchored by the sky’s might
Aphrodite’s envy, her full breasts

Waves in her waist
Maps to celestial spaces
Rainbow colours merge as one
Her velvet navel

Interwoven palm lines
Past, future meet at present
Her hands come together
to unite time and space

Slender fingers, ancient beads
Statues await touch
to awaken
Blessing hands, grant
carefully sealed, concealed desires

Silken, soft tread
Elements, awed voyeurs
Tenuous footprints carry remembrances
Exquisite lands, ethereal skies

Skirt flowing
starlight splendour
bodice, threaded in thunder
Pleats, evaporate erroneous ways
Twirls silence mind’s lightnings

The fairy who unravels
diaphanous threads of mystery
Obliterated my questions-
wisps of memory
now one with
yesterday’s air

Here she was,
my ethereal answer
Goddess from prayers
Mythical dame from
grandma’s fables
The woman of my dreams.
Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

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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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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

Care – Slam poetry

Dedicated to all of you, everyone who reads this and anyone who needs this:

(To be read in the form of spoken word poetry)

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This poem is about a friend
A friend that we all need
It goes by the name of Care

While liberty pushes the door open
Care knocks, and waits

While worship pretends that you’re flawless
Refuses to acknowledge
your messy habits
Care joins you for lunch
when you chew with your mouth open

While charm looks gorgeous
with full makeup, in party wear
Care looks straight out of bed
and oh-so-attractive

Faith is blind
closes its eyes when you’re snacking at midnight
though you promised to diet
Care chuckles knowing
you’ll get to your goals in the end

While passion floods, overwhelms
Care flows like a stream, soothing

While desire is urgent, Care is patient
Desire asks you for more,
like a telemarketer who won’t put the phone down
Care already has everything it needs

While intimacy is too close, too much,
but never enough,
Care knows where to draw the line.
Intimacy is that big packet of chips
that always leaves you wanting
But, Care is just the right amount of sugar
in your morning coffee

Kindness can feel like charity you don’t deserve
Care feels like the little nudge you needed
that couldn’t have come at a better time

While passion oversteps boundaries,
comes out of the blue moon,
vanishes like it never was,
Care is like that next-door neighbour
you can call on for help
but knows where to draw the line

Trust depends on you for protection
Care knows your secrets without you telling
Trust is that promotion you sweated for
Care is that bonus that comes along
the bonus you’re still not sure what you did to deserve

Admiration can put you on a false pedestal
Care keeps you humble and grounded

While sympathy gets drenched with you
In the puddle of your tears
Care knows to hold an umbrella in the rain

While pity feels like a boss on his high horse
Care can feel like the coworker you so relate to

While courtesy asks for your permission
before taking the last slice of pizza
Care sees that you haven’t eaten out in a while
knows not to ask for a bite

While affection is a playful child
that jumps for attention
Care is the mother hen

Joy can feel like riding
the high of a giant wheel
all the while knowing
that you’ll have to get down soon
Care is a tightrope walker
every time the wind blows
Care steadies itself and regains balance

While value looks at you
like a prized investment
Care is always down
to put some money in a startup

Advise is the older sibling,
who sees you broken,
assumes you need saving
Care realises that
all the holes punctured in you
lets you breathe in new experiences

Gratitude can get transactional
I owe you one, for everything you’ve done
Care doesn’t need a contract
to give you a hug on a bad day

Love fears, care is clear,
love wonders whether it should leave
but care knows it’s here to stay

Possessiveness bolts the door at night
lest you walk out after lights out
Care keeps the door ajar
knowing that you’ll choose right

Bondage is like a rope that ties
tethers you in its bind
But Care is that one knot
you pull it, you’re free

Acceptance looks behind
Hope makes plans for tomorrow
Care finds all its answers in
right here, right now

No matter your place in the world today,
as you care for yourself, day after day,
whether you’re relishing isolation
or struggling in silence,
I need you to know
About you, I care.

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

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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