Stubbornness

I sat on that dust couch sulking
When you came in
Asking what was wrong
I growled stubbornly
And you turned away

In that second
My resolve melted
And the tears stung
Knowing not what error I'd made
Or why you were so cold

Suddenly you burst into the room
Prepared to shout
Or scream, disappointment
Clouding your brows

To find me curled up
In your corner of the universe
Knowing not my wrong
Or why you were so cold

Suddenly you burst into the room
Pick me up, straighten my bends
Shielding me from the very same
Hurt that you initiated

Lecturing and whispering
At the same time
Rebuking and nurturing
At the same time

Our strong hearts giving in
The room was filled
With the jingle of sincere apology
Alternating from our lips

You and I at once vindicated
When stubbornness gave way
To simple communication
How easy it can be

The Real Write Ups -- Raa

As I wrote write-ups for my friends for the College Yearbook, I realised how hollow it is to attempt to compress into three sentences the relationships I have built over three years. Here are the Real Write-Ups.

First Year Dirties

Like a fish to water, I took to you. It was quite effortless. Did you know you were the first person in College to call me "Mari"? I knew right then that you were going to stick around. There's no way I would let some random girl that looked like Ritu to call me Mari, unless I knew she would be amazing. We go back to the beginnings so often that we know it by heart. Small skirts and IDG talks. First year with "Where?" texts and coffee. With all sorts of outrageous outings like shady Metro Station beer. Now when I think about it though, it isn't first year that I hold most close to me. It's what happened after Diya and I invaded B.D. Estate and suddenly, it wasn't  "The PG". Suddenly, it became "Home".

We know dangerously too much about each other, Raa. Somehow it's always been easy to give away my worst secrets to you. From being friends, we became roommates and then everything changed. We were dealing with the dirties now. Fighting about switching lights off, about hair in the drain, about the maid and everything in between; and on those days, when we were at wits end and made each other cry, we also learnt about every little thing that pisses each other off. We learnt about or worst fears, our biggest insecurities, the ones that only show up when it's 12 a.m. and there's an exam the next day.

Spaz is our middle name

We've grown up a hell lot since those first year days (or have we?).You have taken care of me as the perfect mix between a sister and a best friend. The funniest and most memorable things that we've shared are best left unwritten. We don't want our kids (no matter how hard you try, Raashito, your children will know me) to find this post and use it against us.

That room of ours will be the best room. Even with all my creepy paraphernalia. That room of ours, as much as we hated it, has absorbed every ounce of our characters into its walls. All future Mittal PG residents will feel our creepiness resonate from those walls. I feel this is a proud moment for us. We have left our mark.

Our nights on that terrace, too many to count, with the smog of Delhi and one-and-a-half-moons are what I will miss the most. There's a certain sense of loneliness I feel when we are not up there together, because that's just the way it has always been. From watching interesting shadows to playing ridiculous drinking games, that place has done quite an excellent job of being refuge from bad days, bad food, bad landlords and bad anything else.

Take my secrets to your grave, Rashi Rathi. I love you.

P.S. I have too many pictures with you. Kay took almost all of them

The Real Write Ups -- Meg

We just started on the wrong foot. We should never have. There's this picture of us from Blues that I have. Can you believe this was even before I knew you? It's difficult to imagine that we weren't friends before. After the ice broke, it was all so effortless. Like the day walking from the metro, sharing earphones and listening to you explain the lyrics of Hosanna.

Like you said, we are much about the big things. We are bottlers and skeptics. We are move-onners and deciders. We are secret keepers. We are jigsaws that no one has all the pieces to. But the small things are just as important. The nights at the PG with those ridiculous coffee mugs of whiskey sour, with club dancing, star gazing, coin flipping and truth-or-daring, the evenings when we repeatedly got kicked of out that stupid park, the afternoons flopping and "stealing" our internet: these are the little security blankets that I will hold on to when I miss you the most. Will you miss me too?

It's difficult to quantify us. It's difficult to contain us into words and phrases and sentences. When I think of us, there are always these clouds of memory that float around in my head. Blue boxers and long legs. Gold hair clips to contain greasy hair. Picture posing. That crazy laugh of yours. Crying like a loser on your birthday. Fab India. Khan market haircuts. Side Wok. Coffee. Amma and crab at the Grand hotel and Amma's amazing Malayalam. Meggers, you are a goddess in most every way. From the kajal-lined eyes to how you are effortlessly The Smart One in the family.

I hope that our hugs, the best ones ever, will always be around. Not just to comfort (no, we don't need other people to comfort us, do we?) but also just-like-that. And when no one really gets it, when no one says it will be okay, you will walk with me to the park and say, "do what you want to do, MarsBars."

Mari doesn't konjify. But Mari will always konjify her Meg. I love you.

Strawberries and Whipped Cream

My entry for this week's Three Word Wednesday. The words were: Juggle, Fawn and Navigate.

You: juggling two bright scarlet strawberries
Me: aggravating a tall can of whipped cream
Impish sparks in our eyes

Under the filtered sunlight from the window
I attack, covering in gleaming sweet whiteness
Your dark, fawn-coloured skin

I squeal, you quieten me with an assault
Sour fruit juice trickling down my berry lips
Faster than summer sweat

Guiltlessly, like the children we are
Along soiled kitchen counters, sheets, towels

We navigate a path

To some blissful alternate universe
Like explorers with magic maps and grand plans
We escape the realm of time

--For Raa and Di. You know this poem was written for you.