Feather

"An insult to the strong man that rests inside you,
you pea brained nincompoop." I could almost hear
myself screaming somewhere deep inside my head. The
voice came from so many places, those places where
generally Madonna songs, three years of office
insults, break-ups etc are kept. "Strong?"

I was searching for a feather given to me four years
(almost five now) ago by a soulmate. A soulmate he was
no less, Maybe more, but certainly not less. he had
caught the little feather between his index and middle
finger, held it till his smile had faded into mine. I
remember inhaling his strawberry-jam-sandwich breath.
The world had muted for one brief moment, till his
grip on the feather descended, the feather
transcended, I caught those moments and the feather. I
was searching for those lost moments in the feather.
Lost so, that I wasn't successful in weighing their
credence. It was one of those times when you know
you're missing something, and you know what it is, but
you're scared to express it to yourself. You try to
wash years of emotion with temporary condolence of
your own solitude and, sad but true, falsehood. The
falsehood of not missing what you miss everyday of
your life. And yes, golden moments, better than one's
experienced will arrive but are the one's gone, really
gone?

I remember him holding a Gillette Presto in hand in
some the-name-doesn't-matter hotel , one night. In
frames I remember him delicately whisper "Let me do
it, please, please, please, please." And he did so
much as to touch the razor to my foamed right cheek,
and withdrew in the same delicate mo(ve)ment. "What if
it hurts?"

I also remember the bus journey when he asked what
kind of love was I looking forward to in life. I…I
said…well you know…the one who understands…something…
someone like…err…you know…(he won the eye contact
which I was fighting so desperately against) you, I
said, it had finally blurted itself out. he smiled,
his answer wasn't expected as he said, someone with
dark hair, brown eyes, not taller than you, his smile
faded again.

I know not why I search for the feather for it was
forgotten after I passed out of the college with a
coveted degree and memories. I could swear on my life,
he forgot it in the laughter of a new ray in his life,
"a replacement" as other friends told me "you're
forgotten, haha". So I pretended to forget. I never
knew why I searched for my feather, until yesterday,
when we bumped into each other in a bus bumping its
way towards home. The availability of seats allowed
me to be seated after his, and I wondered if he was
the same person who had hugged me when he cried and
when he laughed. His destination was nearing; I hoped
he had done well in the years blinded to me. he got
up, smiled at me, eyes evidently wet, and offered a
handshake which only we (we both, only two of us)
knew, as if to remind me of the times that we had
shared, I accepted it, as if I never forgot.

Ek Jaan

It's difficult to write
Poetry
On a winter afternoon
Grey
And dull
Darkness falling
Like a furry moth
(though it's not 4 o' clock yet)
Enveloping me
In a sort of suffocating vacuity
An aching nothingness
That comes from
The pent up frustration
Of having to accept
That you're mediocre
I've tried my best
To keep it from you
Tried my best
To piece together
Short
`Staccato
Sentences
With pregnant gaps
And jagged edges
Like a grey
Winter afternoon
Struggling to hold on
To it's weak light
Because it's not
4 o' clock yet
Because I'm only
twenty eight yet
An empty, passionless poet
At twenty eight.
Tried my best
So you wouldn't know
But perhaps,
You already know
That I can't anymore
That one can't have
Writer's Block forever.
That it was
Just a defence mechanism
That I am
Only a mediocre person
Terrified of my mediocrity.