Brace Yourselves!

Ikhtiyaar

देखे एक नज़र या करे नज़रअंदाज़

चीर दे मुझको या सींच दे संग प्यार

गुमसुम सन्नाटा या छेड़े बातों का साज़

मेरे कुसूरवार, ये तेरा इख्तियार

Bated Breath

Blushing; desires I began to wreathe
Lost in dreams, forgetting to breathe
In anticipation of mingled breaths,
I waited with a bated breath.

Love Grows

Love is the planting of a seed, and careful nurturing, brought upon by devotion of time and energy. And then in worshipping one day to realise that a plant has been born. Love, then, is to marvel in its tendrils, and look at amazement at the fact that its previous non existence is now unimaginable.

Love is not looking at the sky and finding new colours. Love is to notice all the familiar hues, and yet find life and wonder in them. Not to love flowers anew, but to develop an appreciation for them.

Love is not some momentous occurence, wrought in a moment of glory of magnanimous happenings, heroic deeds, tales of folk and lore, of stories worth human praise and admiration and thirst and longing for generations to come. Love is to be found in everyday companionship. In ordinary kindnesses, so ordinary that almost unnoticeable. Love is the noticing of that ordinariness. Love is realizing that something special has been done by a person of the valleys, in all that he was capable of. Love is not expecting the lofty heights of the mountains. Because you wouldn't be able to deliver that yourself.

Love is not the mystery and charm of a little black dress, engulfed in champagne and darkness, encored by the music of seduction and danced in waltzes. It is not heady nights of rapture, where one seeks to impress and then take on from there. No falsehoods, assumptions, presumptions, imitations or impressions. Love is what one finds when encountered by genuineness. That despite all the flaws of that person and your own, that person loves you and you love him back. Love is not a rich mistress, who beckons you with her adventures. Love is found in the graces of your wife who still cleans your house and looks after your children.

Love is not a great fight between lovers, followed by a passionate display of emotions and movie-like love making beside an open fire on the carpet on snowy wintry nights. It is not the flying across continents with a special motif in hand, armed with a guitar to perform a rendition for your lady and win her over to a happily ever after. Love is the continual struggle in ordinary grimy existence to reach out to each other, to keep the communication channel still flowing, even though temptations to be rude and mean and hurtful are rather strong. Love is the uneasiness gnawing at you until you make up to him or her. It is the long last wordless embrace at night that finds comfort in the other, and sends its thanks to God for such a person in your life.

Love is not the sparks of the first sight. That is simply the seed. The actual love is what follows, if at all. Love is to love the character and nature and eccentricities of a person after long exposure, and still want to be exposed to them everyday. It is not the tumultuous, whirlwind courtship that leaves you out of breath, even though you might dream of that. It is not the wine rich, sandy and sunny, happy, gift strewn honeymoon period. Love is the testing of the solidity of the marriage afterwards, which is fraught with bills to pay and meals to cook. Love is not a heavy diamond rock you wear on your ring finger for occasional showing off. It is the simple band that has left permanent impressions on your skin, and in which you take comfort.

Love is not the choosing of a partner after careful analysis, spying by friends, inquiries made by relatives, detectives hired to foray into pasts, checking of Facebook histories and Tumblr accounts. It is the deep seated, inexplicable conviction of your own heart when, even though you have known very little of his or her life, you just know that this a gem of a person, and the best for you.

Love is not passionate love making of Kama Sutra standards on a daily basis. It is not only deep throated smooches and uncontrolled impulses. Love is also the simple peck on the cheek, which simply says, "Here I am, and here I will be." It is a cuddle which does not necessarily lead to passionate throes, but often to long, sweet, fulfilling sleeps, having received a fragrance and warmth of the other. Love is an embrace, where you simply hold her, engulf her, let her rest herself against you for as long as she pleases and close her eyes, all the while as you gently rock her back and forth. Love is to let him know, in that embrace, that he is your hero, your blanket, your home. Love is to tell him that you fear nothing, with him by your side. Love is to be able to know when his arms begin to ache, and gently withdraw, and become the support instead.

Love is not Jack's beanstalks that erupt overnight. Love grows.

If Only

Out beyond ideas

of wrongdoing and rightdoing,

there is a field.

I'll meet you there.

- Jelaluddin Rumi

(from "And The Mountains Echoed" by Khaled Hosseini)

Dreams Of You

My dreams of you are great fantasies

Epic operas washed in golden lights

Marble steps, elaborate chandeliers

and dainty feet on shiny granites

Mysterious evenings that fade

into rich promising nights

Anticipation, ardour and excitement.

The air of my dreams of you is perpetually

thick with passion and emotion.

A grand promise of some great

divinity occurring in the undercurrents.

And when you come into sight, the air, it crackles.

And I rush down those steps and rush into you.

Your arms poised to receive as you lift me up.

And passionate kisses follow

oblivious to the eyes around.

I look into your eyes and ask, "Why love me so?"

And your eyes seem to answer simply,

"Because that is what I do."

I rub into your stubble because I like to

And it dawns on me again, that all these years along

You have wordlessly, unconditionally, continually

showered me with your gestures of love

when I had been seeking mere words.

And yet you never stopped,

acts of affection coming forth.

Corazon. You honour me. I love you.

Why I Love My Lotto Shoes

I dearly love my Lotto shoes

because they are big and black

Neither tight and nor too loose

And all girly glitterings they lack.

My big black Lotto shoes have a fiery red

lining, about which in lore and legends is said

would make fully grown men themselves wet

and whimper back to their mothers in a sweat.

My shoes have a spacious front

Some of my weight they bear and grunt

That place is so palatial, that my toes

sneer and bare their imaginary butts to foes.

My toes dance the ballet and remain unchaffed

Play and make merry, and in an orgy are wrapped

There are no cuts, ahoy, or holes at the heels!

No contact with rain water, thus my skin never peels.

Ah yes, I recall, there is a hole at the toe indeed

The one I acquired while learning to weld metal sheets

But now is plugged with a mysterious mochi material

Ah mighty shoes! You withstood the heat of molten aluminium!

Sometimes when they bite my fair ankle

They are easily repaired, after leaving a sore spot

Bitey encounters that leave me rankled

But then what are creams and lotions for?

Most importantly, when filthy people stare at me

I look at my shoes and feel strong and mighty

And I think "Come on chap, dare you touch a hair on me,

These shoes will crack your nuts and make you flighty"