Daydreams

Starin slowly ‘cross the sky, said goodbye by Ana Segovia

In a different world
we put the stars on snooze
and stay in bed a little longer.
Against the translucent curtains
a streak of sunbeam breaks on your face
into a thousand glorious particles of resplendence.
Your fingers trace the longitude of my spine
as my lips sleep locked with yours;
the quiet of a summer morning
only being disturbed by the whizz of air conditioner
and our intermittent breaths.

In a different world
we throw our phones into water
and waltz to patchy jazz records
endlessly, across the living room
as the air saturate with the aroma of
over-ripe mangoes & thai green.

In a different world
we put our watches away
and wash the dishes a little slower.
I linger on the countertop
dusting ash into a makeshift tray
while we discuss the politics of love.

In a different world
the flames of urgent passion
are doused with the certainty of domestic.
Surfeit with the mundanities of an ancient affair
our bodies lie apart, away
solitary in their togetherness
together in their solitude.
Our feet touch each other
as your hands sheild my face from the sun.
I turn around to fix my eyes on the stray grey brow
and seek refuge in the familiar warmth of your neck.

In a different world
I would stay the night
week, month
and the lifetime after.

In this world
would you wait ?

– S, 2020

Paper-Cuts

Art by Tito Merello Vilar

(tw : abuse, trauma)

On good days,
I define my trauma.
I remember & talk of it
as a stubborn creeper
I have sprayed enough weedicide on
to not bother me anymore.
I walk past the alleys of my past
carefully avoiding the pungent puddles of abuse
pushing past the demons-
some, uninvited
some, of my own making.

On bad days —-
well..

(Pardon, how much trauma qualifies as bad trauma?)

There are days,
the trauma robs me of
my very last syllable.
I turn a prisoner of my own parasites
as they crawl between the membranes of my skin
swiftly marking their pathways red
with delicate cracker-thin lacerations.
Blood & tears vapourise to smoke
only to attain voices that I dread.
The moonbeam breaks into sharp shards of glass
faithfully reflecting upon faces –
faces I had held & trusted
faces I had loved the laughter on.
Among them all
there’s also a face I barely hold any memory of.
As nightmares knock on the back of my head
a stench of tobacco fills my nostrils.
My throat burns with the familiarity of a distinct rum
while a cacophony of muffled sobs hang heavy in the air.

Tomorrow,
I will walk on the lilac skies of hope
hop on a bridge of rainbow that leads to the Sun
and whisk myself a frothy mug of cumulus.
Tomorrow,
maybe, just maybe
I will look my trauma in the eye
and smile my way past it.

But today,
canoeing alone through the velvet labyrinths of the night
has to be enough –
one row at a time.

-Sanchita Dwivedi, 2020

Bullets

• Somewhere in Japan
a craftsman fills the crevices of a broken pot
with golden lacquer:
kintsugi – to repair with gold
a beautiful art of celebrating scars.

Somewhere, a few lifetimes away
my lover kisses the bruise on my calf.

The pot & I are one.

Art – October • Entrance to a Quarry by Tabrez

• A child’s tricycle bell chimes in distance
as we lie against each other
lulled by the gentle exhaustion of lovemaking.
It puts me in awe
how perfectly our hearts, minds, and bodies
are designed to fit-
like specks of stardust
floating independently in a galaxy of solitude
only to come together –
significant in their own insignificance
in the grander scheme of the universe.

• The world is a blueprint of serendipities
a gorgeous mess of people
waiting to cross paths with each other.
Yet what a privilege it is
to stumble upon you-
a pair of arms to collapse in
eyes, to spill dreams into
a heart to call home.

• To write using bullets
is a weird way of writing poems.
To write poems
is a weirder way to manifest love.
One can only hope
that the muse gets them right.

• Again, to call this love
is an understatement.
A strange four lettered word
to suffice for what’s raging in my blood.
Do I love you?
I (will-bruise-and-break-myself-multiple-times-to-be-touched-by-you) you.
I (shall-keep-floating-in-oblivion-until-I-find-the-brilliance-of-your-smile) you.
I (will-build-a-new-world-only-to-run-into-you) you.
I (fuck-bullet-fonts-I-will-take-real-ones-for-you) you.

I love you.

– S, 2020

five ways to kill your lover

1- wake them up with soft kisses
as the sunlight hits their face
and breaks into a thousand particles of stardust.
take their hand and
lead them to the mirror.
undress them slowly and gradually
slowly enough
to let them chew & digest
their own reflection.
make sure that your fingers run
all over their scars:
the thick blue-black one on their left calf
from the time their father pressed their skin
against the exhaust pipe of his bike;
the knot of the tissues
where the slits on their thighs meet;
the stretch marks on their shoulder blade
from an era when anorexia starved them to
‘four-sizes-down’ in high school.
Then, in a blink, all at once,
reveal your body
in all its resplendent pristinity
unscathed, unscarred.
Watch then revel in your body
and look back (down?) on their own.
Leave a kiss on the corner of their lips
and walk away.
Do not speak a single word,
do not.

2- as you both fight
and shatter expensive cutlery and cheap dreams,
make sure that you do not slam doors and leave.
make sure that you stay back
to make them a cup of hot chocolate
and sit by their side
as they cry on your shoulders
and struggle to hide their guilt away
beneath your neck.
take their head in your hand
and hear them apologize
and thank you and apologize
over and over again
and as they do so,
lightly, whisper into their ears
that how you are different from all the other lovers
they had taken in the past.
Repeat it religiously after every single fight
every single day
between gasps of love-making
so that when you leave,
they won’t be able to kiss another pair of lips
without feeling the warmth of your tongue in their mouth
that they won’t be able to frame a sentence
without making it sound like an apology or a thank-you note.
drown them in gratitude.

3- when they go on a trip
stop tending to their house-plants
and
abandon their pets.
give their cat a nice tuna meal
a bowl of warm milk
and leave it to its fate
in a distant neighborhood.
when they get back,
tell them that the cat ran away
and you spent days in despair
searching for it
and you are sorry
for when you were out looking, the plants died.
they will be so busy cooking you a meal
and blaming themself,
that they’ll forget to grieve over their pet.
what could be crueler
than snatching away one’s chance to mourn?
before you eat the food they made
season it generously with remorse
and say how you should have brought
dogs & succulents instead.
make everything about you.

4- listen to them, always.
listen as they tell you
how they spent their nights inside the cupboard
when they were eight
hoping to escape the cacophony of their parents’ arguments.
listen as they tell you how their old lover ridiculed them
for reading too less
for eating too less
for fucking too less
for being, just too less.
and the next time you want to talk,
shout instead.
scream, at the top of your lungs
till they crouch on the ground
eyes closed, hands on their ears.
make sure that there are no cupboards in the house
and ask them if they think that they are enough.
pry & feed on their weakness.

5- and even though you have mastered enough ways,
the trick is never to kill and always to keep.
make love to them in old bookstores
pour them rum in their favorite mug
dance with them to Presley
remember the exact number of peppercorns to grind into their morning tea
and never leave.
with enough time and food,
animals in slaughterhouse too,
begin to believe that they are cared for.
humans are no different.
you see,
some people are hungry for love
or anything that remotely resembles it.
stay. pretend. stay.

– Sanchita Dwivedi, 2019

Art- Tiina Menzel

Absolutes

I see the world in white and black.
I have never known colors.
The asphalt of the night
bites gently into the
vanilla of the day,
swirling gracefully
like edible liquid charcoal
in a glass of white froth;
like a hungry amoeba
engulfing its prey.

I see the world in white and black.
The universe exists in absolutes.
Out beyond the paradox of black hole
lie hidden the theories of a white hole.
No one is in the quest of a unicorn island,
you see?

I see the world in white and black.
The way I like my coffee;
on some days, I go all black, no sugar
on some days, I pour out the bottle of cream
though later that day,
I lock myself in a bathroom and puke my guts out:
anorexia is real.
I have memorised the recipe of my life.
5 tablespoons of melancholy,
a quarter tablespoon of joy;
a dash of Kohl on sleepless white canvas,
there’s no place for grey.

– Sanchita Dwivedi, 2019

Art: Dibyush Jena

The Odds of Falling In Love

What are the odds
that I would die without you?
Zero.

I was 15
when my high school sweetheart
left me on my knees
as I begged him to stay
with a huge greeting card on the floor,
a trembling heart in my hands,
and everything else that I had.
What I had thought
to be wounds from barbed wires
were but mere bruises,
and scars on my wrist from a new blade laced with antiseptic,
which healed with time.

No one dies without anyone,
you see?

I was 18
and this time, god, it was fierce.
It was the kind of love
that kept me on the edge;
a knife whose pointed edge
just dug in deeper and deeper,
and before I knew,
love tore up my insides
put up a crazy ballet show,
except it had bridles on its legs
instead of ballerina shoes.
It bled but love bleeds
doesn’t it; (?)
so, I wore my abuse
as a crown of euphorbia milli
and I used its thorns to prick my eyes;
I understand why Oedipus used the pins
of his wife’s robe to blind himself;
when in love,
even the weapon of inflicting pain
looks like a souvenir of affection,
a bittersweet respite.

No one learns anything from a broken heart,
you see?

So, what if I have laid out
my diseased heart with all its blue-red broken veins,
pieces of an old greeting card,
chunk of a rusted blade,
shreds of my soul,
and an assortment of whatever is left of me,
carefully on a platter for you to relish?
So, what if I have collected
the dust & debris of my heartwrecks,
and put them in a beautiful mason jar
filled with the moonlight of my dreams,
for you to flaunt on the shelf of your living room?

What are the odds
that you would accept my offering?

What are the odds
that you, too, would fall in love with me?

And if, my darling, you do not;
what are the odds
that I would die without you?
Nevermind, zero;
heartbreaks are a cliche, after all.

-Sanchita Dwivedi, 2019

Image Credits: Giulia Rosa

loving you feels like
walking into a room
full of fresh laundry
and beautiful dreams;
dreams, which I thought
my eyes were incapable
of weaving anymore.

loving you feels like
biting into a
freshly baked cake
and putting half-baked hopes
back into the oven;
hopes that I had buried
the ones that stood no chance of resurrection.

loving you feels like
listening to the music of
cicadas at night
and composing an experimental lyric
in a dialect no one will understand
whose cassettes no one will buy
but you and me.

loving you feels like
taking another helping of
my favourite dessert:
and hearing you sleep
for hours at a go
you see,
my heart’s never content with it.

loving you feels like
holding an old, musty book in hands:
such beautiful & rustic things
crumble apart easily.
I promise,
I will handle with care,
I promise you, I will.

loving you feels like
walking on wet earth
after the rain
and taking a blind leap
towards the unknown
one step at a time
walking, jumping, running;

love, I am coming home to you.

-Sanchita Dwivedi, 2018

Art: @kyon__a (Instagram)

Last evening
I got drunk on
five mugs of caffeine
and sweated my life out
in a gym
following an instructor
I don’t care about.
I walked for
four kilometers
calling you up
four times
Hey.
Hey.
Hey.
Hey.
I collapsed on my bed
my hands ached
but, my heart ached more
to hear your voice.
Something tells me
that
it’s gonna lull me to sleep
or maybe
I am overthinking again
I fell asleep in seconds
Must have been my bed.
Might have been you.

Last month
I dressed up
as best as I could,
put in my best table etiquettes
while I dined with clients
I didn’t give a damn about.
I traveled back
500 kilometres
texted you five hundred times.
I cross my legs on floor
eat with my hands
letting the curry
fill crevices between my fingers
just like your fingers do.
I hear you laugh
oh, can you see my pain melting away?
Must have been the comfort food.
Might have been you.

Everytime
you clap your hands in air
tie your hair into a ponytail
and
demand
tell me
‘ do I feel like home? ‘
How do I tell you, honey,
that
vagabonds do not have homes,
i can’t tell
if you feel like home
but,

ever since you walked in the door,
home feels like you.

-Sanchita Dwivedi / 2017

Image : @diombd (Instagram)

A Eulogy To Self

This poem is going to be on my epitaph
or maybe not.
Because, neither am I a Christian
nor do you give a damn.

‘ That’s what careless words do. They make people love you a little less. ‘

My copy of God of Small Things
is dampened with
tears and memories.

Believe me when I say
that I have lived the quote.
If you let me to
I would engrave each of its syllable
on my body
so that I am constantly reminded
of how with each passing day,
people will shed a tear less
at my funeral.
Believe me when I say
I have lost the love of so many loved ones
that I’m afraid
I might shrink to nothingness someday.

When I was ten,
My Mother told me that
I am never going to be loved
because people don’t love a girl
whose words hurt:
My words were like the stray cricket ball
which broke your fancy stained, french windows.
My words reminded you of MLTR playing on a broken radio;
old, obsolete. Who listens to them anymore?
The agonizing cry of a child after getting beaten up
the loud slam of the door when your lover walked out
the faint whimpers of a puppy near his dead mother on some distant highway:
those were my words.
My words, they never dripped honey
or smelt of lavender essential oils
or reminded anyone of the nostalgic whistle of the last train to home.

I was often baffled by the synonymity
between me and my words
on how unfailingly we had failed people
holding the doors open for them
whenever they decided to walk out;
never uttering a sigh. Hush!
Little girl, you were never supposed to be loved
or to be heard out beyond what you say.

It has been two decades since my words have stopped making sense
so, I have locked them away in the basement in the same carton where I have put my gardening tools and love:
I am never going to use them anyway.

So, the next time you meet me
just brand me as a junkyard of sass.
It’s the easy way out, trust me.
Do not try crawling into my skin,
hammering your way through my bones,
swimming through the blood,
trying to reach my chest where nothing beats anymore.
Do not try to know me,
Do not ask me why I am always short of things to talk about.
Do not ask me if I am choked on tears because I am always going to blame the cold and wine
Do not ask me about those craters under my eyes because I am going to tell you they are hereditary.
Do not ask me why my hands tremble so much, because it’s just a neural glitch, that’s all-
You see, I have bought myself some good red wine, a few planks of wood and a new blade.
I am building my coffin, drafting my obituary, and carving out a message delicately on the nape of my neck.
So, the next time you see me,
do not ask me why my hair is always in a top knot.
So, the next time you see me,
and I hope you see me dead,
do not fucking say that I did not cry for help.

-Sanchita Dwivedi, 2018
Picture credits: Cris Valencia

Citylights

I was seven years old
when my father decided
to shift to a city
with wider roads,
fancier restaurants,
and an unpronounceable name.
For the next thirty days after I moved in
I cried whenever I heard the rooms echo
I vomited to the olid odour of fresh paint
and deliberately wet my mattress
because I was too afraid
to find a bathroom
in a strange house
of a stranger city.
For the next thirty nights after I moved in
I could hear the roars of the trains,
I could feel the ground shudder.
I clung to my Granny
as tightly as I could
digging my nails
into her frail, wrinkly skin.
Something pulled her away.
It has been five years, eleven months, and twenty eight days
since Granny died.
On some nights,
when the trains
sing me lullaby,
the city and I,
talk about her.

I was sixteen years old
when my brother decided
to move to a larger city.
For a few days
he talked about
how the air smells of freedom,
and how the nights taste of warm liquor.
He talked about
how the city never slept
and survived on a fried potato and buttered buns.
But, the next time he returned home,
he did not talk at all.
He slept for three days.
He did not talk at all,
we started to look for his voice
in his trolleys and duffle bags,
until one day,
he spoke.
He told me how my city
is better than his city.
I reminded him
that it’s still his city
still his home.
He talked about how
he missed the noisy pandals,
the quiet Christmas Evenings,
the chunk of peaceful life he had left behind.
He kept on cancelling his tickets
delaying his departure
One day.
Two days.
Three days.
Until his employer
dropped in a mail.
On some nights,
when the trees weave me
beautiful stories,
the city and I,
miss my brother.

I was eighteen years old
when the girl across the street
whose eyes sparkled like the city-lights,
tried to run away.
She used to slam doors,
and vanish.
The reason is a blur now,
but what I remember is
she always returned.
She talked about some force
which pulled her back,
that there’s something in this place
she falls back into.
On some nights,
when the stars
bathe me in their light,
the city and I,
envy her.

I could never understand these people
and what kept them chained.

I could never understand why
Sachi Rautray, of all things
chose to write about his quaint village.

I could never understand why
Jagjit Singh’s voice trembled
when he sang about letters and longing.
I could never understand any of it
until I found myself
crying in a strange airport
thrice as large as my city’s
with flashy boards and posh stores.
They say
distance makes heart grow fonder.
They are right.

My grandmother died
shortly after she left her town.
My brother
still cancels his tickets.
The girl
still lives in the same house.

If you cut their bones open,
I promise, all you’ll find
is loneliness.

You see?
You don’t uproot a plant
from the soil.
You don’t snatch an infant away
from his mother’s bosom.
You don’t spell my name
without my city.

So, strand me on any airport you want to,
and teach my tongue a new language everyday
but, my heart will still throb
in my beloved city of temples,
my mind will still wander in its rain-glazed roads,
my feet will always lead to its old, rusty libraries;
dust my hair
and you can smell in the fragrance of forgotten flowers
that envelope the whole city in autumn.

People often mistake that
I live in this city.
I don’t know if they realise
it’s the river and bridges
they are talking about
when they talk about
my blood and bones.

People often mistake that
I live in this city.
In reality,
it’s the other way around.

-Sanchita Dwivedi