The Colour Purple

The last time I had been this far away from home, on my own,
I'd spent most of the time trudging around rock climbing gear
in a big yellow bag pack and could smell
that strange pine cone-hill clouds-lip balm scent
from my dorm's bunk bed-window.
Nainitaal camp, 2008.
That'd make it what, five something years back?
Um, okayyy.
This time around, there are no sunny-leaf walks,
Delhi's not exactly known for pretty wander-away portals.
And I doubt Cnnibn would be leave me with any doodle time at all.
So, bleh.
This time, there are no fussy teachers, no U.N.O. shuffles,
no giggly midnight sessions over the new 'boyfriend-girlfriend' situation in XI A.
I still have that purple bomber jacket from all those seasons back
though.
The one I'd pose as a war-reporter in, mouthing gobbledygook
in front of Thammi's oak-edged wedding mirror,
with a hapless Barkha Dutt looping away on the desktop behind.
That one, I still got.
I don't quite get to use it in the weak-tea winter of Kolkata, so it's
the same long-faded blast of cold for us both,
purple jacket and I.
I think of the time that's creeped in
between our last trip together and
this one, and feel an odd tug of fondness
for this mothball piece of parachute cloth.


So I curl up on my swinging side berth and
wrap it around, tight . And we 
(don't)



tell each other of all the things
we've known. 
:)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XtC8OKmrr5A

Lovelovelove

Vitamin String Quartet
!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=78OUWjeYwzY

Polaroid Love

http://thoughtcatalog.com/lauren-suval/2013/12/we-were-like-a-scrabble-board/


To the coffee shop, the backstage, the geography practicals,
to Trio.

To Dyuti, Niloo,
house championships and charades, to
song writing and scattered mango-chutney noons
dripping silly war-reporter dreams.

To S,
to playing 'camp' under hitched-up tablecloths, to
not knowing what lay behind her chip-tooth smile for
many many annual-ends.


To the girls from Naini trip,
to Sonika, her Mohrni song
and our fern-leaf, hail-cone adventures.



To stage productions, saree-converse,
lunch time max oranges.



To loving faces and places, to
not knowing
that I'll never look at them (the same way)

again.

Diary Doodle, pg 365

So this is the day the world frays a yard, the 

kid sister runs free, bouncing on her knees yet

another happy birthday.

One a little suddener than the other, both

smell of bath salt and 

teenage winter, a little, and

they catch in my chest

like that.

Bottles and balloons cover the corners of my place - I'd

forgotten the deafening decibel of a

Seventeener's mirth.

Breathing in the fresh

paint on the almirah, I watch 

a bar of sunshine leap off the marbles

and onto the laptop. Always the cynic, lately,

I look to see if she's broken at the seams.

Hardly.

The yellow is filtered, confused at places, but

this yellow's a rooted girl.

Assured, I throw my head back and 

meet her

half-way around the window.

The oldest wave of new, rolling in, 

time - or -music - or water 

it -

hitsmyface and 

lingers.

I hold myself in, for less than 

a star-spin and

exhale 

a wise calendar. 

Happy highs, Kid Year. 

A Pile of Old Metal, a RadiantBlur

Wraps her heart 

in railwaymist 

and dreams of 

oldlace Christmasthings 

and picks up scaredsongs

on her knees and 

rocks to sleep and

rockstosleep

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_fuZdtdVP5o