Rivals

Suppression and I were rivals
Or so I thought;
Since that summer which felt
More like spring
While striving to
Suppress a laugh that
Escaped my mouth,
The hem of my t-shirt
Stuffed into my mouth,
Amidst an otherwise serious
Family prayer; as the laugh
Inconsiderately spread to
My 6 brothers & sisters
Like a nuclear chain reaction
And burst into a bellylaugh.
But years later,
On those seldom visits to
My grandpa and his
Then-companion Mr. Parkinson
Tears rushing to
Roll down my cheeks,
Breaking the queue
And Code of Conduct;
I feared if suppression
Was getting the better of me.
And upon hearing the
News of his death
Unknowingly checking on my
Phone for Facebook updates
With trembling hands
Instead of calling my sister
I was almost sure that
I was losing out to suppression.
But as I kiss my grandpa’s
Cold, dead forehead
Chewing away the pain;
With an Orbit White,
The pain; of loss and a million
Indistinct things, coupled
With a sinking, heavy heart
Maintaining a behaviour
Appropriate for a funeral
And a chilled out exterior
Gazing at the white Carnations,
Chrysanthemums, Gerberas
Gypsophilas & Asters in his coffin
It looks like we’ve come to terms
Suppression and I.

The Return

Juggling with the libidos of a few men, her hipbones just did what any pair of hipbones would do. It continued its existence, an existence less threatening and more meaningful than of a cleavage. On long, salty, sweaty afternoons, while making uncomplicated love coupled with practiced responses to her boyfriends, who would come without delay and leave in less than a week’s time, much like her menstrual cycle, she would look in the mirror, all the while. She was adamant about looking in the mirror to see her lovely pair of hipbones and how it gleamed with each golden ray of sun that filtered through white supernet curtains with velvet self printed polka dots. But then this habit only led to more troubles as her boyfriends were too inexperienced to find a position in which they can enter her and she can look at the mirror reflection of her hipbones, both simultaneously. So she stayed a virgin. Technically. They called her a narcissist. She din’t even bother to look it up at dictionary.com. She would just lie in bed, in her vibrant Lovable bras and printed PJs, face tilted to the right, chin up, eyes closed, her arms thrown backwards, her long torso stretched even longer, her midriff forming the perfect curve and her hips moving to left and right in a slow rhythm, resonating to the song of the breeze. Whoever had managed to get a glimpse of this sight was never heard to have recovered. Their lips and their breath alike longed for the feel of her hipbones. But she just wouldn’t let them. In the early hours of the night, she would make tender rather passionate love to her hipbones under soft cotton Portico bed sheets. On coffee scented, noisy evenings, while pretending to have clever conversations about obscure things over decaffeinated espressos with unsuitable men, her hands would go down under the restaurant table, in search of her hipbones. For her, nothing was as self assuring as touching her hipbones. Those days, she survived only on decaffeinated espressos. An espresso in the morning, another at noon along with a hot dog or burger and two or three in the evening. This routine made her grow thinner and so her hipbones more prominent. Little did she know that the more prominent her hipbones became, the stronger her rebelliousness grew. They were intertwined, the hipbones & her rebelliousness, like fingers of young lovers and inseparable like two peas in a pod. Back then, the only thing she was at peace with, was her body, or to be exact, her hipbones. The hipbones defined her. She got so obsessed with it that she spent all her money on buying funky hipchains and oxidized silver waist bands. Those were the only accessories she used to wear. Whenever she got time, she made hipchains with black thread, beads, coins and other trinkets. Also, she made it a point that she wore only string thongs in order to save her hipbones from the mediocrity of oversized, ugly undies. It turned out that it wasn’t just men but a couple of women, nuns who ran the college she joined to be precise, were also affected by her hipbones. In the 2nd year of graduation, when those holy penguins came up with a rule that every student must cover her behind, she would daringly walk around in collar neck t shirts shorter than a cheer girl’s skirt and faded, torn jeans. Since low rise jeans wasn’t popular and so unavailable in those parts of the country, she would wear size 30 jeans when her actual size was 26 and she would wear it so low that it wouldn’t leave anything much to the curiosity of onlookers. Apart from their prayers, a white cotton Levis belt was the only thing that kept her jeans from falling off. Hair up in a ponytail, with a skin tone so much of an aquaphobic, she, sporting a cross pendant and a blackish gray Diesel sling bag hung over her left shoulder and across her body with badges that say ‘Heartbreaker’, ‘Boys R Toys’ pinned on them, would walk around in front of those holy penguins, unnecessarily lifting arms every now and then, pretending to catch dragonflies that never existed, revealing a smokin’ pair of hipbones. Nothing in this universe would come close to the charm of the naughty smile and the can’t-get-past-my attitude twinkle in her eyes then, upon seeing the angry, crimson faces of those nuns. They hated her hipbones more than her guts. It made guest appearances in their nightmares and sometimes even played the lead role. The hipbones made babies with their conventionalities & prejudices. Even long after they kicked her out of the hostel, under various charges including ‘provocative dressing’, her hipbones continued to appear in their nightmares. Less frequently, of course. But while she was busy making lemonades with all the lemons life gave, she forgot all about rebelliousness & decaffeinated espressos and eventually about her hipbones too. Years later on a bleary-eyed, yawny morning when she woke up at her workplace, after proof checking print ads for the new account pitch till 3 am, looking herself in the mirror, out of the blue, she remembered all about her hipbones. And as she ran her fingers down, to feel the hipbones, for self assurance as usual, she realized those were lost in life’s rat race, leaving no traces. Daily battles, ego, indolence and responsibilities among many other things formed thick layers over her hipbones. She couldn’t feel them anymore. That’s when she decided to live life, not letting life live her. She got back to decaffeinated espressos and everything else. Now her hipbones are making a return. But looks like not her rebelliousness.