All posts by Moushmi Radhanpara

A woman questioning almost everything, trying to find answers through her's and your words. I am on an unending quest, walking the paths of unknown. I am walking and walking, may be too slow, but I am doing it. I am happy as long as I do not stop. I will be content to fall, to fly, to swim, to drown, only never to stop.

A Raving Reminiscence.

The lane is empty

Except for the kacchi kairi

Kacchi kairi strewn across on both sides.

“What is kacchi kairi?” he asks.

I turn to him, and give him an imploring look-

See for yourself.

“All I see is beaten, tattered, useless raw mangoes.”

I give him that look again.

I smile.

I keep walking, walking

On that lane which is delusory,

Empty, except for kacchi kairi.

The trees tower over us

The greenery overpowering us, shadowing us

From the clouds.

The faint drizzle seething into our veins

The pungent raw smell

Overwhelming my memories from which I have abstained.

The lane desolate, leaves scattered about,

Kacchi kairi’s standing orthodoxly, waiting

For my retrieval into the fond memories

Buried deep, somewhere inside.

And in a trance I was transported eons back

Playing- carefree-

Callous- teasing-

Happy!

The sweet sour memory of eating that kacchi kairi,

The soft tiniest bite

Sour juices flowing

Eyes barely opening

And yet I would take bite after

Bite.

That sweet-sour memory of kacchi kairi.

“So what’s new in that? You still eat kacchi kairi.”

“I know”, I sigh!

Its different I want to cry.

But I give him that smile.

It’s just not the same kacchi kairi!

“So what, now you want that same raw mangoes that you ate

As a child? Don’t you think that’s rather impractical?”

The rage that gnaws at me is minutely conquered

By the insanity that he thinks I live in.

I don’t answer.

I just give him that look,

And he gives me that look

When he thinks that I want to make him understand

Without the words,

And he thinks I don’t know that he does understand,

He just enjoys his taunts more

But I know

And he knows.

And we draw each other together,

Closer.

And we walk that deserted lane,

Where there is nothing

The lane is empty,

Except for the kacchi kairi.

Kacchi kairi strewn across on both sides.

 

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My Very Own Peccadillo.

I don’t know love

I don’t know how it is to be loved

But I know how to love

Day in and day out-

Giving my all.

I am a woman, pining for love

Waiting to be touched;

To be held in your arms, to be

Kissed.

The soft murmur of your eyes-

The hoarse voice; I am only waiting.

I don’t know love

I don’t know how it is to be loved

For I am full of distortions

Queerness, you may say.

But everything I own is mine

And mine alone.

I am whole and yet incomplete

For I don’t know love.

I am a pleaser-

A sinner.

I am my own beloved

I am the betrayed.

I have joys, I have aches.

But they are all mine,

Mine alone.

I am I.

For I don’t know love

I don’t know what it is to be loved

But I know how to love______

A Barbarous Bogart.

Garbed in a glorious bedlah

She tranced towards me like a Cinderella,

With mischievous eyes and a coy smile

She perpetuates my wait, longer than the river Nile.

 

She sways her waist with obtuse precision

Making my lust ameliorate with elysian,

Her biased hips, her light feet transfix me

And I want myself to drown in her tumultuous sea.

 

Her fingers brush away my forehead hair

Her sensuous red lips near my ears, forcing me to dare,

Her knees gluttonously sliding betwixt my thighs

My pleasures reaching the epitome without a surmise.

 

Feverishly, I grab her left breast making her squirm

Her laughter rippling inside me like a lightening storm,

But oh! Alas! Curtly, she unfastened a dagger from behind her back

And pierced ferociously through the seething sinews of my heart.

 

 

An Unwilling Bouzouki

Sitting on chairs in proper alignment

It seems a long ago, when we students were huddled about,

Celebrating India’s independence was the days’ requirement

Making our English teacher proud.

 

Constantly, we had chided and pleased

To do something else as a substitute to teach,

We did it often, played adventures

Making memories after memories to one-day treasure.

 

She decided she’d ask a question to the vibrant youth

To which we would answer with sheer truth.

With defined wisdom she asked

“How will you want to see your country at long last?”

 

The question she asked was very simple

But it created in my mind a momentary ripple.

I raced with my newest friend, over thinking

Sitting there paralyzed, unblinking.

 

Speaking up in front of people was never my thing

And so I sat there; to time clinging, worshipping,

But we were only thirty students

And I persistently fought against my prudence.

 

Smiling, nodding I heard what my friends had to say

Pondering, how meaningful answers they had their way,

From eradication of poverty to building roads

To making luxury cheaper- their thoughts flowed.

 

And in less than forty minutes I was called on stage

When all I wanted to do was hide in a cage,

What is my favorite teacher going to think about my dumb thoughts

But still I erased blank, and joined the dots.

 

With face turned hot, ears red

I held the mike, but my lips dead.

I gathered myself, blinked and blurted

What my teacher thought- was the secret of my being introverted.

 

“If I live to be an old maiden

I want myself in the world (not country) to reawaken,

I want kindness; I want honesty and no chaos

I want peace; I want beauty and no havoc.

 

I fumbled; I fidgeted and put the mike down

Ashamed, I got down feeling like a clown,

I went to my seat, hiding my face

Wanting the few minutes to retrace.

 

Up until then I hadn’t herd

The deadening applause,

And so I sulked deeper amidst the nerds

For such words, I thought definitely had no cause.

 

Years from that day, I stand by those words

But if only I could change my verse,

Or better still I could have at least tried

To say everything for which my heart cried.

 

That day is gone

But I have a little strength now,

I have a little word play drawn

Perhaps, you’d tap with the button ‘Allow’.

 

If I live to be an old maiden

I want myself in the world (not country) to reawaken,

I’d love to see so many blessed things happen

That life itself would feel like a welcoming wagon.

 

If only I could find things a little different

My little sister would have taken birth for starters,

Or I wouldn’t have to be constantly belligerent

Being an orthodox Indian daughter.

 

I wouldn’t have to go to an all-girls school

Fearing boys and all the various rules.

Comparing myself to those who didn’t even go to school

I should have felt my life a little less cruel.

 

I’d want my grandmother to give me a kiss

For I never knew that bliss,

Or for my uncle to not give me that stare

For it was mortifying, I swear.

 

I’d want for no one to give me an eye

When I say I don’t want to learn cooking,

I’ll have different means to fly

Than just making all kinds of pudding.

 

I’d want a life where my mom does not persistently say

When you get married please take care of your husband,

Darling, you are not suppose to go astray

For your in-laws will have us trusted.

 

I’d want a life when I wouldn’t have to think some things

Like what can I study, so they never cut my wings,

Or how will I mange so many responsibilities

Work-husband-in-laws-kids-kitchen- a trillion little things.

 

I’d want a life where everything will not be ‘my’ duty

And I won’t have to be an absolute bouzouki,

Yes I’ll want peace and love and no havoc

I’ll want kindness, honesty and no mental chaos.

 

I’ll want a life where I consistently don’t have to remember

That I am a woman and somehow, somewhere I have to surrender,

I’ll want a life where I don’t want to stand in front of the mirror

And see incessantly how from him I differ.

 

Today, I have a little strength, a little clarity

So, please allow me to speak my dwarfish insanity,

If I live to be an old maiden

This is how I’ll want to end my cadence.

 

*

PS: Do tell me if I have started saying the same things again and again, and if my words have started being mundane! 

 

The Mystical Pishogue.

I am meek

I am mild.

I am an emblem of docile.

 

I am innocent

I am polite.

I am an insignia of comply.

 

I am submissive

I am conceding.

I am an image of yielding.

 

I am sweet

I am honest.

I am a metaphor of a lonely forest.

 

I am kind

I am tolerant.

I am of all these, a conglomerate.

 

I am I.

I am what I am.

A fable in a flesh.

 

I am I.

I am what I am.

A conceited allegory in oneself.

 

Her Mysterious Meshuga.

There is a whirlwind of chaos inside her

An entropy, a madness, a little emptiness

That ceases her sanity from within.

The mania, the frenzy, the wilderness

All a part of her nugatory existence.

 

The deadening disarray enchaining her minds

Building a claustrophobia

Which you may never succeed to define.

The restlessness, the anxiety, the neurosis

All a part of her woebegone reality.

 

She is imprisoned betwixt the chain and its steely embrace,

She resides inside the merciless bolt and clasp,

And yet she has the zeal to envisage dreams,

To live in a reverie, a trance, a ravishing fantasy,

Her weening tenacity terrorizing her pandemonium to feebly vamoose.

 

 

The Disguised Innocence.

She was walking alone, dazed, on a torturous esplanade

Fighting battles that she didn’t know existed within,

Shaky, confused, confounded

Adrift amidst her own gloomy labyrinth.

 

Having abandoned her modest attire

The saree, the simplicity, long discarded,

Adorning herself in skirts, she became a voracious liar

Determining to no more forsake her heart unguarded.

 

With an extra layer of seething gory kohl

She strived to camouflage her inner sufferings,

The dark lips concealing the agony, the rage exalted at a knoll

While her innocence, her honesty;

Secretively yet commandingly tumbling.

 

She thought she’d garner and hoard her emotions

Pretending to be strong, while her insides shivered,

But her eyes failed her miserably deceiving all notions

Pulling her into an emotional whirlwind blizzard.

 

She was determined to make herself be loathed

Pining to remain abandoned, isolated and lone,

Yearning for no one to heal her soul

Hardly discerning that in a stance he’ll come

And all her aches will be enthroned.

 

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