Four hours and four limbs
knotted and twisted
curled
into and away.
Courageous kisses into
sweat and spit.
Tingles, whispers and wobbles
down the spine.
Slippery pushes and
tugs like Gravity.
Pining
Late night pings
scratched and lit
phone screens.
Light sighs and
heavy thoughts.
Parched lips and
quick fingers.
Rail lines and
network bars.
Don’t search for months and
find in four hours.
To Float
I feel strange and overwhelmed like I’m being constantly compressed in this vast space. Everyone is asking me why I can’t expand, but I can’t. They look concerned and shake their heads solemnly while not daring to come any closer. They tell me, “Do it by yourself, you can do it.” But is this really about personal courage or conviction? Isn’t it just easier to probe, poke and prod from a comfortable distance. They expand in their own spaces – not in the space we are supposed to whollly occupy. And I stare and bob around that space meekly. They are terrified of the courage I float with. They’re trying to tug on those imaginary strings but they just get entangled in their hands and heads. Those strings do not exist. I’ll float and bob until they realise. Until they cut those imaginary strings.
They’ll let go . And I’ll float.
Metamorphosing
Those tender pieces
of your heart set
Afloat.
In the uncaring blood that
Hardens them.
Those that fluttered
like the butterflies
that your stomach housed.
Now turned back to
Larvae
that crawl in your gut.
Those fairies that
danced out the edges of your fingers
when you touched
Him.
Now sink to your bone
Immortality bothers them.
Maybe another glance
is all it’d take
for Him to costume you
and Himself.
Shut
He caught your almond eyes
under
the moonlight.
He sniggered
“They look like buttons”
Your hair enveloped his face
He giggled.
“I can’t see”
Your legs dangled off
carelessly
from the edge of his bed
He contemplated.
“They’re too long”
Your lips parted his
and searched
His closed and pursed.
What not to do at a job interview
I have a knack for screwing up.Important things. Like job interviews.
I am a student of communication studies, which entails the dreaded summer internships. The final exams have almost drawn to a close with my too-pompous-for-it’s-own-good British Literature paper remaining. With the end of the exams a two-week trip will follow to some of the most beautiful places in India. After which I have to join the working class for a 4-week internship at a leading newspaper.
I’ve heard too many horror stories about the plight of interns.
Most of which are through Scott Adams’ comics.
My senior made a funny noise with her tongue when I asked her about a good place to intern at, “Gayatri, a nice internship is like a four plate masala dosa which you eat for free” ( she has a weird obsession with metaphors … and Masala Dosas), “Except for at a real internship you have to pay with tears, scrub down the restaurant and you’ll be given a torn Utthapam.” She guffawed and snorted as I gulped and looked around for a senior without a Dosa obsession.
“Indian Express is a good place. They take you places and let you report about things other than a minor politician’s press conference on the sewage system.” My Head of the Department said as she probed around her cluttered desk for an eraser.
Two months and endless calls later I ended up in front of the glaring white Indian Express office. And learned one of the most important lessons of my not-yet-intern phase. What not to do at an interview
- Forgetting to introduce yourself:
The editor gave me a once over as I awkwardly said Good-Evening twice. He pointed at the second chair and I pushed my way through the tiny space between the wooden desk and the chairs. The moment I sat down he said, “ Telling me something about yourself.”
“I am a first year student at Mt. Carmel”
“Pfft..” he swatted away an imaginary fly ,“before that”
“Err…I am from Kerala and did my schooling at Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan.”
“Ah. That’s a good school.”
I nodded with smug satisfaction.
“Wait. You didn’t tell me your name.” He pursed his lips and let a slow curve drag from one of their ends.
“Haha.Yes. Ohh.. I am sorry. I am Gayatri. Gayatri Manu”, the James Bond touch seemed like a good idea then.
- Eyeballing your interviewer as you have a rock trivia competition:
“Tell me something interesting about yourself Gayatri… What are your interests?”
“I enjoy writing –”
“Well that’s obvious, something more”
I squirmed in my seat, “I love listening to Classic Rock.”
He finally manage to raise his furrowed eyebrows, “Really, now? Which groups do you listen to?” He gave me a suspicious glance through his glasses. I wouldn’t let that piercing gaze he practised everyday in the front of the mirror get to me.
“I listen to The Doors, Led Zeppelin, The Who.”
“Oh. They are quite good.”
“Oh. I know.” I leaned back into the hard seat.
- Not knowing a book of your favourite genre after you’ve claimed to be a bibliophile:
“What do you read, Gayatri?”
“I enjoy reading coming-of-age novels and am working my way through feminist literature.”
“Have you heard of (enter obscure sounding book title which I have never heard of) by Rudyard Kipling?”
Return of the piercing gaze.
“Err… No, I haven’t.”
I let him win this one.
- Claiming to be a fan of the Hippie Culture as he lectures you about not smoking pot:
“ Well, that book is great, it’s a coming of age novel about this boy, about how he experiments with drugs. But don’t get influenced by his pot addiction.” He lets out awkward laughter and he averts his gaze to the immensely interesting paperweight.
I mimic his laughter and blurt “Haha…Sir, that’s okay. I’m open to everything. I’m a fan of the Hippie Culture.” He looks flustered and I add quickly “ And yet, I haven’t experimented with drugs, so I’m okay.”
He looks solemn, “ Don’t underestimate the power of a good book.”
“Haha…err… Yes, sir.”
The interview went on for another 15 minutes and I threw in a few fancy words, “Sir” I leaned back into my chair and gazed the ceiling “I’m a victim of wanderlust.” He gave me a puzzled look and enquired more about my desires to travel.
And if you’re wondering, I did get the job.
I start on May 1st.
Here’s to more awkward eyeballing.
Rock is not dead
I sat quietly in my seat; the car moved swiftly, owing to the deserted roads. My friend on my lap cracked a sorry joke and everyone let out peals of awkward laughter. I sat, looking fixatedly outside the open window when I heard the song. My song.
I let my limbs loose as my soul emerged through my well-calculated inhibitions. I sighed softly. The rhythmic strum of the guitar channeled my effervescent thoughts. The thumping of the drums made my head sway to tunes that were but a creation, of a pair of skillful hands. And then, his hauntingly tortured voice crooned out of the speakers.
He told me what he felt, in a tune so melodious; it pained my heart to listen to it. Oh! The irony of being aggrieved by an uplifting song!
Two slow desolate tears ran from my unblinking eyes.
I broke out of the trance as I felt an intrusive touch on my shoulder. I turned toward its source to see a concerned face. Yet unwilling to let of go the euphoric reality I shook my head quickly and averted my gaze towards the fast-moving images outside the window.
At that moment, my life was perfect a utopian fantasy now a reality. Possibly due to the kind of solace I find in solitude. A solitude, which contradicted itself due to the togetherness, I felt with this abstract idea and the distance from the warm bodies next to me. As long as there was a tune, I wouldn’t be alone.
Rock isn’t dead.
Weird Young Indian 