A Handful of Nothing

I don't know why isn't my blog giving spaces between the stanzas!

I stand on one end of the corridor

While my back faces the wall

While my heels and head touch two spots

I fear the I might fall.

Beyond me lies the corridor

The walls run to meet somewhere

I am blind to where they begin

And it's too dark to see the end.

I open my eyes

To pull them as wide as I might

To absorb the light barely visible

Into each blackhole of my eye.

I let my hands go

Each finger ready at its hour

Stretching cautiously to its degree of freedom

Rooted in the palm, yet very far.

And then I breathe

Punctuated when I inhale

Puncturing the vacuum within me

Fearing my lungs might fail.

And so I raise

I raise my right hand

Down from the bottom of my arms

Parallel to the barren land.

The blackness before me

Does not beckon me, no

But the will within me, albeit slowly

Tries to stir some hope.

It seems ages before the wall

The wall that clings to my back

Lets me go with a heavy heart

To disengage and detach.

I trace what I want, before me

When my fingers run through the air

It is nothing, that little nothing

That falls for my hand's snare.

For I can see

Or just want to see

In this black, a little something

And not, not turn around

With a handful of nothing.

Because pain is not my problem

Nor I hope to see you again

It's the search for something

In which I am spent, but in vain.

For I will go on to search

In this blackened corridor

If only there is any promise

This blacknedd can make for sure.

Because the only thing that breaks me

Is a promise broken itself

It's the frustration that grips me

That all I can blame is myself.

For my naivity and credulity

On hoping against hope

That this corridor will promise

Little more than nothing to swallow.

You will feel the anguish

When locked inside a cage

With keys to every lock but alas!

Endless locks, to cater to your rage!

With every key that removes a lock

The lock appears repaired.

To tease your mind sinusoidly

With pangs of hope and despair.

I talk about the anguish

That robs me of my faith

That renders me cold in my heart

All the way to my grave.

The Charlatan Cacophony of My Kin

I mostly avoid seeing what appears to be
When I enter a swarming jamboree
While a dozen cliques clamor aimlessly
While my ‘friends’ feel happy hopelessly;
While they raise their arms longing to wrap me
While they pass a smile full to kiss anybody.

“O kin! O love! My dear friend,
Tell me over some wine and bread
What makes your hair so black and curly?
What gives your skin that flare, that flurry?
What makes you like that ludicrous alike?
You shouldn’t wear this shirt with a tie.
Listen when I share my clandestine
On how the best shade is tangerine
You seem to be quite short of taste,
Flock with me, you’ll learn all in haste!”

“Such trivialities”, I reply, “shant be necessary
For they are for the charlatan society.
Please hear what lies beneath
This exultant well disposed sheath
Be the one to answer who is me
Apart from cheering who I could be.
For here a million belong to akin a creed
Prove to me that you’re a friend indeed.”

“My my! Not a word,
Not another breath under my nose!
Your pathetic, tragic soul,
Shall dare not take its toll.
You ask to walk an extra mile,
Though I haven’t any minute to while awhile.
For I am here to cross some words
To kill some time while we ogle at birds”

“For the sake of my space, my time
For those pieces of borrowed dime
For the moment when I lent a comfy shoulder
For when I helped you move the boulder
For the friend you found inside of me
For the friend I try to see in thee
As I look beyond the receding horizon
Looking blindly for a cogent reason
To what difference lies between
Who I could and who I should be.

“Your demeanor baffles me
To self embarrassment that I cant see
How to classify what is help, what is favor
What’s a deed done out of endless savor
I implore a state of understanding
While the world seems to be quite demeaning.”

Hoping Against Hope

This is a poem on child abuse. What if the child has no clue that she is being abused and is trying to convince herself that this is how the world goes around? Ironical, isn't it?

As those teary eyes peep beneath the door,
For any shadows lurking on the floor,
Any signs of you being there,
Hoping against hope, this was fair.

“You, o uncle, o my family kin,
Thou shall know what’s good, what’s sin,
Thus I believe in your disposition,
Hoping against hope, there were benign intentions.

“So when you dropped by my room,
‘Just to say a hello, an adieu’
Shutting the door behind your back
Putting me up upon the rack
Tracing the lace beneath my dress
Why must my bosom supple to breasts?!
My eyes scare me, as I catch a look
Of your deeds in the mirror at the nook,
The butcher’s goat, as it waits,
For the dagger in his hand to signature its fate!

“I mustn’t panic, should not despair,
Should not question those who ‘care’.
This was right, this was just,
All uncles would do what was must,
Shame on me to doubt his love
See a vulture disguised a dove!
I am young, know not what lies
How the moon conjures the tides,
Should trust he who takes care of me
Who comes in the dark, but adores me
THIS IS RIGHT! I HAVE TO BE STRONG!”
Hoping against hope, that I am wrong…”

The Truth about Lies

The dictionary defines the word ‘true’ as something in accordance with fact or reality. And ironically fact is defined as something true. That is such a neat way to fool people and manipulate these familiar words. I wonder how many erudite or imprudent people have given these four letter words a thought, but I have come to realize there aren’t even half as many truths as we claim every breathing moment of our lives.
Come to think of it, there are billions of people living lives, sharing the world, bustling in the crowd, feeling feelings, seeing light, not seeing in the dark, appreciating colors, fouling on foul mouths. Who in the right state of mind claimed that all of us saw the world in the same manner? When we are born, we open our eyes to confront a world completely unknown to us, even the body bestowed on our soul is like a new friend to be understood, to be communicated with, to be teased to know your limits with it and to draw the lines consequently. A baby just a few hours old maybe doesn’t even know that if he just pulls his eye lids upward, he would be able to ‘open’ his eyes. It might sound a little weird, but I don’t think he would be able to define ‘opening your eyes’ as lifting his eyelids and rolling his eyeballs in all direction. In fact, I don’t think he is even grateful to be gifted with the sense of ‘vision’.
Till the time he is spared from all the learning, he communicates in a language with no sounds and actions. I think if one wants to see how magic happens, one must observe a young soul getting on with his daily chores with just no visible mode of communication with the people and objects around him. Once the learning spree begins, he sees a thing and a name comes up for it. Everything has a name; name is the most important thing in the world, words are names, every word is a name, and to connect to anything I must know its name, to be respected by it, I must know its name, to like it, to dislike it, to get angry at it – I must know its name. The child perhaps takes his five sensory organs a little more seriously for the first time when he sees his mother shrink her smiling face into other expressions such as a frown or a scorn or even delight for that matter (although her face wouldn’t shrink in that case) or starts to tickle him. In fact the first time he realizes his own forte for opening his mouth and controlling the air in his lungs to make him feel nice and happy would be at the same playful moment (for your reference I mean laughing).
There is a world in every eye. What appears red to me might be blue in your eyes, a circle for me would be a shape with no corners, for you it might just have two ends, or for that matter corner for you must mean no corners at all! I know it sounds little obnoxious, absurd, are-you-out-of-your-fickle-mind sorts. But how in the world can you be sure of what I am seeing? There are words; there are languages, which are man-made and on the other hand we have us, humans, lives that are created by something supernatural (okay we come out of our mothers’ wombs and our parents have ‘created’ us!). We have named everything so that there is something in common in all of us. Hence the sky is blue (on most sunny days), no matter what color it appears to you. And since we have heard this since our fleeting memory can allow us, my saying that the sky looks different from what it looks to you sounds absurd. I hope I am making some sense to you!!
So much for the colors and the shapes, but how does it relate to my subject? Since everything is subjective, differing from person to person, these cannot be called facts. Consequently, I am not as true as false I am when I say I love having tandoori chicken. “Now where does food come into the scuffle between truth and lies??!” Emotions are just the consequences of hormonal imbalances – like the rise and fall of a stock market (!!). When you love, hate, envy, excite, mourn, or feel any emotion, it is either a surge of adrenaline swelling your heart (not literally of course!) or some other biological process. It is probable, that when you like some one and think of him/her day and night and fantasize all happy (again through your perspective) and gay moments that you would want to spend with him/her your face curls into a scornful look instead of the more accepted and observed smile. Also maybe when people hate someone, you have butterflies in your stomach or you skip a heartbeat. I say so because maybe the first time you felt like despising and emulating someone in the same moment (jealousy) you were told, “hey, guess you like her!” and so what seems to be envious to others appears like love to you. So emotions aren’t facts that can be true or false. So I would not lie in saying I hate my mother because maybe my heart is filled with a sense of immense care and joy when I ‘hate’ my mother!
Our sense of direction is also not a fact. Nobody asked me before defining right to be right and left to be wrong? Maybe my ears hear right to be left and left to be right. Maybe the sun rises in the west for me because the world appears upside down to me!
I can site almost everything to be subjective, opinionated and hence not suitable to be categorized between truth and fallacy. THIS is the only truth – the truth about lies.

another try at writing

fellas, do justice to my other blog by reading it (not that anything significant has been posted on it as yet).
http://divita-randommusings.blogspot.com
regards.

The Bohemian Bird

The Bohemian Bird

There was once a Bohemian Bird,
With her blue immaculate as seas,
She flocked with feathers of many others,
And met cordially with the bees.

And there she was, the Bohemian Bird,
Blading through the thinning sky,
Reaching to the blazing sun,
And racing with her inner I.

And happily would she, the Bohemian Bird,
Attend to her duties alike stout,
Follow the trail that her family led,
And would bleed to make them proud.

Yet known she was, the Bohemian Bird,
To take the path un-tread,
To appetite even the bitter curd,
To paint grass a fiery red.

As loved can be, the Bohemian Bird,
Would the forest deluge on her,
To wherever the wind soared to dance,
They danced to her fervor.

Like an everyday, the Bohemian Bird,
Paused at the crackling water-fall,
To see the monkeys take the leap,
While gravity slung them like a ball.

“Fascinating”, she mumbled, the Bohemian Bird,
To “trust-walk” at nature’s call,
To be one in the monkey kin,
And jump from the water-fall!

So she gamed, the Bohemian Bird,
With the very delineation of identity,
By jumping abreast with her 4-limbed friends,
Disregarding her ‘heavenly’ individuality.

In vain did she, the Bohemian Bird,
Kept ablaze her endeavor,
Her attempt to blend with the swarm,
One more time…with growing devour.

She evaded the fact, the Bohemian Bird,
That red would not be green,
That she would be herself in sky,
And a minion, lest she preen.

Sadly, the Bohemian Bird,
Despised her avant-garde sane,
That left her feeling a renegade,
That crowned her amongst the mundane.

“Alas!” She reasoned, the Bohemian Bird,
“No good would my prudence do,
If it cannot buy me friends,
If it cannot appreciate their ‘trends’.”

Slice her wings, the Bohemian Bird,
If not grow some limbs.
To emulate the dim-witted, ill-fitted kin,
To jump from your own whims.

Even as she fell, the Bohemian Bird,
Plunging into the murderous sea,
Did neither regret cross her heart,
Nor did her determination flee.

Little did she know, the dead Bohemian Bird,
That the masses gathered to see,
To build a stone and write on it,
“The one we all wanted to be”.

Cold Turkey

Cold Turkey
PART - 1
Our first vibes melted together in a joke,
We stumbled, never spoke of what lied ahead,
You took the challenge and went on,
Only to crave me, that’s when it went wrong…

I am what you suffered, addicted to,
I am what you traded with your wine and bun,
Filling your lungs with a deceptive ecstasy,
That left you worse than numb.

I can be the bitterness in your nip,
Pushing you into with the drunkards’ cult,
Killing you with every icy drop,
But never putting your tears to a halt.

I could be the poison on your lips,
Burning from the tobacco in your blood,
Promising to fade your sorrow in the smoke,
Yet only robbing you of the life you loved.

Of the rest of my trances to you,
Your fortunes could confront you to,
My disguise of love, my most creditable,
Which would leave you ever so vulnerable.

I am what you find the most beautiful,
Captivating you for another sight of me,
Offering only anguish and despair
And a hollowness that pretends not to be.

So after every word we trade,
After every glance, you put on stake
The freedom which seems slaving,
The friends who were never deceiving.

And one fine morning when you dawn to realize,
That I’ve conned you into joy in disguise
You shall turn around steady,
And follow the cold turkey.

PART – 2
For this is the path all junkies tread,
All know what lies ahead,
No matter what you face in this dark tunnel,
The other side would be bright and abeyant.

There’s a world in every eye,
There’s a symphony in every ear,
The catch lies in blinding yourself to what you see
And you won’t madden to my being in everything.

And so you shun that world
Shunning YOU here in the first place!
The nook that purrs with your fear,
Hoping against hope may be I am still there.

You tie your hands, strap your feet,
Gag your mouth with a shred.
Lock the door, draw the drape.
And drip your pain behind your nape.

As hours melt in the heat of the night
As the room animates before your eyes
Your mind conspires to your soul
And poisons your love with malice.

So what was once a pleasure to re-live
Those fingers reaching out to knot
Now round around your corpse
And raid out whatever you’d got.

You fight your own certitude
Pulling away from the straps
Choking for death on the chains
And drinking the thirst from your veins .

When the morning sun dawns next hour
Deceiving the bloody curtains,
Bathing you in pure sinless warmth
Luring you far from the wrath.

You’d wonder what thee thought of me?
What thou words speak for me.
Had the cold turkey turned my venomous ardor
Into a chalice full of abhor?

But that’s the beauty of the eschew
That’s why your blood was not of no use.
For you still respect me for what I am
You still see the benign conjure that I can.

And you move on, onto a new lane
Onto a new disguise of my mane
You might pit into a trap lurky
Relying you have the cold turkey…

Divita Mathur
A non drug ex-junkie

ERECTED RIDES

Erected Rides
If the title made you smile, then read on…

The biggest passion fancied by most men on this earth is riding on a bike. They say it makes them forget about their worries and travel across the globe with no dues! There is a sudden rush of adrenaline through their veins that elates them to the seventh heaven (oh for god’s sake!). Some of them even compare it to moksha or salvation. And if their lady love is sitting right behind them, it’s like a cherry on the cake!
Why do guys prefer to take their girls out on a bike to a car or any other vehicle? I mean neither can you talk properly nor can you see each other’s face; all that you can do is scream on top of your lungs and say something urgent or just play pass-n-pass with the helmet (if you are one swell Indian!).
And so this question intrigued me to the extent that I started observing couples on bikes. I would like to appeal that don’t misinterpret my habit of observing to staring at the poor souls like some desperate Indian who lives out his/her fantasies by just gaping at other people enjoying. And one more thing before we move on, I am not cynical about Indians!!
On surveying the love-birds on motorcycles, I could list down a few things in common between them. Firstly, the guys would prefer to leave space in the front and sit in a way that they occupied more than half of the passenger seat as well. The poor ladies at the back are left praying that they might just not fall off the bike! May be the guys have some disease like steero-phobia, just discovered the fear of steering handles! Or may be they are psychologically disturbed by a nightmare that some wicked aunt of theirs might spring out of the fuel meter and pounce on them.
Secondly, the only rule that men seem to follow when they drive is, “if there are breaks, pull them hard!” And so, their female passengers are pushed in front every time the driver decides to halt. The result, oh come on readers, you must’ve figured it out!
Finally, ladies, I can’t believe you never got the whole story working behind the scenes (or I should say between the bike riders!)! And trust me; the consequences of our actions are vaster than you seem to think. Women tend to rest a hand on various places of the driver (pardon my bluntness). The coy ones will have a hand on the driver’s shoulder, a sign of assurance I guess, saying some thing like I-know-we’ll-make-it-without-being-hit. A girl living in her own dream-world, probably wishing that a love song would just start beating in her ears, would have her arms wrapped around him, constantly reminding the poor guy that he’s hooked big time and at the same time convincing herself that the other guys are dying to trade places with him!
And last, but not the least for there are many places where a girl can set her hands on (pardon me again!), there is this one kind of women who intrigue me the most, for they seem to be trapped between the easy and the “pleasurable” ways of sitting on a bike. They have a knack for resting a hand, preferably the right, on the driver’s thigh. It gives the illusion that the driver might lose his senses if she even moved a finger. The sight of a women sitting behind her husband with their child in between and her right arm twisting so that her hand reaches her husband’s thigh raises profound sympathy in the viewer’s eye; maybe she fears being spanked on reaching home…
So much for the “hows” of the feminine sex sitting behind the men-folk, but herein lies the answer to our curiosity. What more can a man ask for than a life in unfathomable and never ending excitement?! I’m sure you men must be thinking, “You gotta be kidding us lady!” but you cannot deny the fact that these little, yet substantial and sensual signs of love do shove you into a blissful palace of desire and pleasure. I just cannot identify with the fact that you are still able to keep a watchful eye on the traffic coming your way. And I empathize with you if you become vulnerable.

I really didn’t give all of this a serious thought until I myself rode with my guy for the first time. Since it was my first ride with him, I was quite apprehensive in the beginning and sat with my back straight. With all these wild possibilities swarming in my mind I tried to save him from an anachronous and incongruous surge of delight maintaining some space between us. After a few rides, I tried, in vein of course, to categorize myself into one of the women I’ve portrayed above. Don’t ask me why I broke up with him…

My 'Big-Fat' Government College

My ‘Big-Fat’ Government College

You are very proud of me, for I am studying in a government college, thank you very much. After all, Delhi College of Engineering is the seventh best college (courtesy: India Today) for some optimistic urban Indians and among the top 20 best colleges in the country (courtesy: other Indian weeklies) for the not-so-optimistic ones. I am regularly reminded by my mates studying in other colleges of the worth of the brand that I sport on my sleeves. And I express my gratitude to the almighty for the adulation I receive owing to my association with this college.
This month and a half in the college has been enough to understand the way it runs. On one hand the beautiful infrastructure enthralls me, while on other hand the administrative system stuns me. Thanks to the requirement of a few slips of paper that are called “cards”, I came face to face with the barbarism that glides on our DCE roads. Unfortunately, the students as well as the staff members are blinded by it.
Elaborating my experience to you, I am sure you would spare me from any accusations of disloyalty to the college; for I believe that true criticism comes from within oneself; and righteous corrections too can only be done by one. The necessity of attempting the inevitable first mid semester exams brought me to our administrative building’s very important section – the admit card allotment cell. Wondering why everybody in the hostel that morning was worrying about the rush on the counters because proper queues and a civilized behavior seemed obvious to me, I entered the admin-block, only to be welcomed by a crowd quite resembling to the one that my dad comes across in a fish market when there is a sale. I tried resolving to the i-am-a-girl-so-i-get-importace approach to the situation, something I try avoiding unlike the other young ladies when we come across problems caused by the oh-so-sad sex ratio. Failing in my attempts in persuading the boys to get a form for me, I finally barged into the crowd and fought my way to the counter that seemed miles away. One my way back to the exit with three forms in my hand (two for the girls waiting hopelessly outside), I heard one of the boys mushroomed in the crowd share his excitement with his friend, “hey! This horde is a good body massage, ain’t it?”
Okay, do you still don’t find a reason to blame the college for this barbarism? Going to the administration block for any fee submission (preceded by a whole college tour to get the receipt signed by different faculty members) introduces you to fresh irritation and frustration from the staff sitting there. And why does the girls’ hostel seem like a jail to us that sets us free every morning at six and shuts us within our rooms every night at eight? The boys, on the other hand, wander about the campus like wild animals till they aren’t finished preying on the cold night breeze and the star-studded sky. Speaking of safety, there’s another way out – shun the boys behind the hostel gates at eight while the girls can walk about freely, at least till 9.
Mind you, this is not the story of all engineering colleges; an impression of generalizing “social” problems seems to be birth right after all. Its just my big-fat government college…

Why being a girl?

Why being a Girl?

When I cried at my first jiffy
As I felt the room pretty stuffy
Grany didn’t like mom’s pearl
I wondered, why being a girl?

By the look on my father’s face
I thought, what was the disgrace?
He took me in his hands and told
“It’s ok”, his heart was consoled.

So I realized every night,
That I was born for a fight
If boys took a step ahead
I must take two while I tread.

This struggle for all girls
Straightened up our curls
When I was to make up a Barbie doll
We were playing basket ball

After a few years of love and fun
Dad said proudly, “This is my son!”
Then freedom gleamed in my eye
I was above all my ally.

As the winds smelled like teen
I was not what I must’ve been
School hours were spent prime
Nights were on for party time

If I thought everything was good
That the society did all it could
To make my life a happy one
With all ecstasy and fun

Said the streets, “You’re wrong my dear”.
Don’t tread without any fear.
For there are shadows that chase your furl
I was reminded…why being a girl?

I felt sorry for my mother
Who startled at a blowing feather
Whenever I was out of the gate
And whenever I was a minute late

We’ve been friends-girl and boy
First we are all modest and coy
What is it that you revenge?
As you grow up, you change.

For we were to lend a helping hand
Walk together through the sand
It’s irritates when you’re chasing
Yeh, I mean eve-teasing.

You don’t know how life’s hell
So listen what I want to tell
That lets change roles for a try
“Why being a boy?!” you’ll cry!

How dare you have such guts?!
You deserve a kick on the butt.
For if I look ‘hot’ to you,
Your sister’s being troubled too!

So dear men, old or young
Give this attitude a flung
Become those ol’ time gentlemen
Understand, at least one in ten.

Divita Mathur
when i was 17yrs. old

Two Queens in a Hive

Two Queens in a Hive

When my kind was designed
Eyes made great and the body shined
Our long hair substituted the tail
We are called the Female

When we are young
We hold dolls for fun
We have two plats with fancy clips
And one ear towards big sister’s tips

Day by day my hair refuse to tie
Day by day the dolls feel shy?
Night by night the stars start to speak
Into the future…can I have a peek?

My pony climbs high
My nose grows long
When I turned thirteen
Everything starts going wrong!!

And then came the day
When I saw the second queen
Wish it was just an illusion,
Or she really was my twin?

We walked for being better
We talked just out of the theatre
My my! I better hurry
Before SHE gets the merry.

On one fine day
The sun changed horizon,
To the world’s great honor
The queens shared the region.

For every chance was grabbed together
And we became centre to gather.
For every step we kept pace
And mended the other’s pimpled face.

I got a break, I had to move
I thought we would still groove
But slowly it happened unnoticed
And the chasm created long distance.

I smiled at my old pal but she was seeing
The person sitting right behind me
When I moved towards her niche
She remembered something fancy.

This is once upon a time,
Two queens in a hive.
They lived happily ever after
When none heard the other’s laughter.

It is a strange disposition
That we must be so.
Coz if we change our shoes
I will have the same go.

What happened in the end
Is that I lost a friend.
But whom should I kill for distress?
For this unwanted mess?

Forget this as unseen
But don’t you call me mean.
Because this is the truth of life
That you can’t have two queens in a hive.

DIVITA MATHUR
{One of the dear queens}

the ungratefull princess

The Ungrateful Princess

She’d be bathed in the Sun’s vigor everyday,
Tanned to the consummate of beauty.
She’d be soaked to the skin by the rains,
Purified from the vile and the ugly.

She’d be distinguished by the masses,
She’d be honored for her brilliance.
But she’d smile on her plastic face
And disregard everything with her unique grace.

Stupid would you find this quality,
Which made her continuously so proud,
That she’d bestow with all her might,
But demand nil from the crowd.

For she had taught herself ingeniously,
At a very tender time of life,
That one mustn’t stay in lieu of others,
One mustn’t hold from the blade of a knife.

But she’d always be heard by The Love,
The Love barring all distressed,
The Love begged for by the unfortunate,
The Love, she, in panache, regarded uninvited.

She cast a shadow on The Love,
She thought she’d left it behind,
She blamed him for the injured dove,
But The Love always remained kind.

Then one fine day in an unreasonable fight,
The Love was lost, didn’t return at night.
She wasn’t uneasy, she didn’t dread,
She mouthed a blame to the fortunes instead.

Time flows, the princess grows,
The Love takes all beautiful facades,
But their hearts, but their souls,
Never do unite, nor obliged by the princess.

DIVITA MATHUR
(The Ungrateful Princess)

8-9-6