i will not complain about these mornings

that dampen my eyelids

with a swab of sleeplessness

borrowed from being a part of the world

where you are always in another realm

we are sin

we abstain

we thaw
in each other's eyes
as raindrops
form patterns
on windows
fogged-up by our breathing

ticking

what is this paralysis that gnaws at my nerves? is this what ms.Coutinho talked about when she said "nerves don't break down, people do"?
all day today, i haven't been able to step out of bed. there have been times i stayed in bed because it was what i needed to resuscitate myself. but now, am forcing myself in here because i feel like i can't do anything.
it's hard-- not having a place to go to. 

you ask me what an orgasm is

i say-
it's when i'm taking light steps up the hill,
going away with just your astonished face on my mind

and once am at the top, i suddenly drop
falling towards you, at the greatest speed 

How are you, dear Chiang Mai?

There isn't much to say about me, except that I recently lost an old relative who loved me and my mother very much. She fed my mom beaten rice and fish everyday when she was expecting me. And after I was born, Yaama (as I fondly called her) carried me around until my growing legs started slipping off her waist. 
Then I lost one of the dogs I loved. He died fighting his way back home after being attacked by all the dogs he met on the way back. 
There isn't much to say about me. Just that everyday, I fall a little more in love with my poet, whose suffering breaks my heart over and over again. 
I'll never be whole. Just like you. Because, I too always seek love where it eludes me the most.

Take care of yourself.

Love,
.

Love,

On mornings likes these, when you haven't had a wink of sleep, I'll be wishing you move you back in your head to that room across the monastery, where you wake up in my arms, slide into dreams, wake up, slip behind eyelids and dream again.
Sleep tight.

gift wrapping

Parcels arrive in all kinds of shapes and sizes.
There were some that arrived all the way from Bhutan, packed with freshly-buttered parathas, pickles and kaju katlis. They were soaked in Meenakshi's mom's love. And I remember waiting for the threads of the packet to come unbound and for the parathas with all sorts of pickles to land on our use-and-throw paper plates.
Food never tasted as great as they did in the Loreto air, the Darjeeling cold always making you hungry for more.

Yesterday, my Santa's sack arrived.
With feverish fingers, I ripped open the packet and out of it tumbled, scarves, gloves and socks that will keep the cold away this Winter.

There's always a mother looking out for you. From some far-flung corner of the world, sometimes.
How did I get so lucky?