Bonds

You know the people we used to be?
The seamless thread that connects
who we used to be,
to who we are now?
It seems to have snapped.

Will you check ?
If it was at your end?
Or, was it at mine?

No wonder it seemed difficult to connect,
we should have known it had snapped.
Guess it was fraying, ever so slowly
as the people we have become
kept pulling at it,
forgetting the people we used to be
who held it in bind.

I turn back,
anxious to reconnect,
worried that we never may
How easily you lose hope,
you say smiling,
as you meet me mid-way.

All it needs is a catch-up,
for the threads to bind.
For time to disappear
and old bonds to re-appear.

And suddenly, the people we are
and the people we were...
Oh ! Never mind.
- Srividya Srinivasan 11/09/2015

They teach you nothing

They ought to.
They ought to teach you
how to value yourself.
how to love yourself.
how to fight.
how to make up.
how to love.
how much to cry.
when to laugh.

They ought to.
They ought to teach you
the value of your desires,
the extent of your denial.
to know how much to hurt
before walking away.
How much to fight,
to turn things around.
And, when to give it all up.

They ought to.
They ought to teach you
how to long within,
to put up with abuse,
to taste the salt of tears
and, the pain of bruises
to just make things work.

They ought to.
They ought to teach you
how to know war,
to know death and loss.
Pain and tears.
To obey the call of religion
and the notion of a nation
when your mind and heart rebel.

They ought to.
They ought to teach you
how a child can lose its innocence
and how dirty hands can touch
its body and soul
and scar an adult for life.
And, what to do after that.

They ought to.
They ought to teach you
how to deal with falsehood
and what to do with truth.
How to taste success
and how to deal with defeat.

They ought to.
They ought to teach you
to love your body
and its secrets,
to be a lover
to know love
to exult in aliveness.

They ought to.
They ought to teach you
how to be lonely,
when your bed is empty
and you are jobless
and your self-worth is low
when friends have disappeared
and you feel all alone
and your life is on the rocks.

They ought to.
They ought to teach you
how to raise a child alone.
how to live in a soulless marriage
how to stifle your desires.
and to kill the conversation within.

They ought to.
They ought to teach you
About loneliness.
How to wear a mask
and how to take it off.
About pain that cuts the soul.
About empty rooms and money in the bank
And, no one to talk to.

They ought to.
They ought to teach you
in the darkest, loneliest hours
what to do with yourself,
how to dig deep within 
to seek the well of wonder and joy
And, to come alive once more.

They ought to.
They ought to teach you how to trust
when trust is lost
when you down on your knees,
when there is nothing left in you
to reclaim yourself from the living dead.
And, to walk alone.

They ought to.
They ought to teach you
how to ride the wave of success.
how to raise a child in gentleness.
how to bask in the sunshine
without guilt or denial.
how to feel good about yourself
And, to offer your hand to another
and to believe in togetherness.

And, yet they teach you nothing.
For, they do not know.

- Srividya Srinivasan 11/08/2015

Waiting

I waited.
You did not come.
I waited,
alive in my awareness,
passionate in my impatience,
with a secret smile on my lips
that spoke of my longing.

I traced the impossible,
my hands running over
my body and soul,
that I wanted you to enter
at will,
I waited for you to come home to us.

The future that seems so beautiful
would never be.
The sunlight as it catches your eyes,
or the laughter that easily escapes my lips,
or the lightness of our feet as we dance along,
Are they, just hidden longings for a life
that was never meant to be ?

Our future is in the now,
in the promise in our eyes,
the restless beating of our hearts
as time teases us with her games.
The walls of our little world
that we have created in our minds,
fashioned in imagination,
rooted in fantasy,
a place, where time stands still.

As destiny joins Time in her teasing,
and I wait for you alone,
May be,
somewhere,in another world,
you are waiting for me.
impatiently, eagerly,
creating a little world in your mind
for me to come home to.

I come alive in the waiting.
I die in the waiting.
May be, the soulless stranger
that I brushed past by yesterday
was you,
cold and listless,
and indifferent to the outside world,
and worn out from waiting for me.

- Srividya Srinivasan 23/07/2015



Back to childhood

Let's go back to where we started.
Let's go back to start the game once again.
Let's go back in time
when there were no losers and no winners.
When we could fight with each other
and make up in a minute,
Where friends were for keeps,
and the days stretched endlessly
all under a golden sunny sky.

Let's go back to old times,
where we all knew each other.
Let's go back to old times,
where we just let someone in
to join the game.

Let's go back to a time of innocence,
Let's form a circle like old times,
where we could all see each other.
Let's start the game once again.

Let us go around until we are breathless,
and our heads spin with the whirling world
And, O let us whirl some more!
Let us run again till our legs ache,
run until our chests seem to burst...
And, then let us run some more!
Let us laugh till we ache,
and till the noisy sound of our laughter
is hushed by a stern adult,
and then, let us laugh at that too.
Let us giggle until we cannot stop,
only to giggle some more!

Let us dance until we cannot stop.
And, O let us dance some more!
Let us stomp with our feet
and drum with our fingers,
Let us sing loudly and noisily,
let the air ring with our off-key notes.

Let us go back in time,
let us climb a tree,
and dress up in pretend clothes.
Let us talk into a mirror again
and pretend we are kings and queens.
Let us pretend we are pirates and warriors,
Let us just clown around.
Let us scribble on the walls,
and paint the ceiling,
Let us turn cartwheels,
let us walk backwords and
talk utter nonsense...
Let us build castles in the air
and in the sand,
Let us jump into a puddle
and blow some bubbles.

Let us eat and drink and be merry,
Let us run and hide where they cannot find us,
Let us hop and skip and jump and jig,
O Let us just go back in time !

Let's go back in time
to a time where time stood still,
where the night was young
when the stars came out,
and we were all still out at play.

Let's go back in time
where the grime from the day's play
was wiped at the back of our sleeve away.
When our noses were buried in a book
and our heads in a cloud,
where our tears dried up quickly
and a bruise magically went away.

Let us go back to a time
when we went to sleep
with a smile on our lips
and a head full of dreams.

- Srividya Srinivasan  20/07/2015

Scars of happiness ?

She had no scars to show for her happiness except her laughter lines

 - Srividya Srinivasan - 9/7/2015

Coming home

She made a home in her head and did as she pleased. And, whenever she was lost she would simply come home

- Srividya Srinivasan 9/07/2015

Life Beckons...

What makes you come alive? What keeps you going ? Is there hope in your heart still or has the weariness of the world attached itself to you like a limpet leaving you afraid and passionless? Do you wake up with a smile and stars in your eyes after restless, feverish soul-searching in the night? Do you dream, dream beyond what is possible and beyond the narrow confines of your jaded existence? How old do you feel? How much in love can you fall? How much step is there in your dance, o how many notes left in your song ? Have you decided to sit by and watch others dance or weep at the dying notes of your own swan song?

Shake your lethargy. Come alive to innocence once more. Believe past your own jaded cynicism. Pretend you are young once more. Jump up with a spring in your feet, fall breathlessly in love again. Let the colors of the world wash over your walls, brushing the greys away. Let the sunlight of hope flood through your doubting self, o let the music play.

Dance till you ache and drop, laugh till you cry. Sing till your lungs burst, and journey till the very road ends and dream by the moonless starless nights. Sleep with a secret smile on your lips, your body flush with the imprints of lips. Come alive, my dearest ...reclaim yourself from the living dead.

Life beckons.

- Srividya Srinivasan [ Morning Hope] 10/07/2015

The ache for a companion

'I wake up in the morning. A small heaviness in my heart that soon snowballs into a deep welling pain, that almost threatens to choke me. I mentally shift my consciousness to a happier frame of mind. I need to. The duties of the day await. As the coffee pot bubbles, my spirits lift and sink like the boiling milk on the stove. My most precious part of the day and I feel incredibly lonely. I am happy to be by myself, to be myself. Joyous about the million things being me implies. It is when my pot of happiness and sorrow bubble over that I long for a shoulder, an answering look in a companion's eyes, the squeeze of a hand, the occasional brush of teasing lips on mine, the promise of laughter, life and hope. None which I was blessed with. In my moment of triumph or in my moments of pain, I long for my feelings to matter to someone.

 I want to matter to someone. I want hugs. I want kisses. I want to belong in someone's arms.  To ramble every day nonsense. To talk  profound sense. To be held tight like i matter. I want to feel like a woman. I want someone to embrace the warmth and sunshine that is in me. Instead, i have this cold feel of automation that is a dead marriage. I know what awaits. The grandfatherly brush of lips against me, or the giggly schoolboy and the abusive, indifferent sadist. My heart aches so much that i fear it would burst.

The birds chirp in the morning hour and in that silent heralding of the dawn my loneliness is overwhelming as the swirl of coffee fills the air. Most mornings i love my aloneness, but i hate the mornings of loneliness when they come. They are overwhelming. everything seeming grey, meaningless. I see couples going for their morning walk, a simple act of togetherness and i long to be one of them. I know i would never have that simple pleasure. I can only watch on with that ache, an outsider to that blessing called companionship. I feel like a widow with a mentally dead partner who is physically alive, like a woman divorced while still married. I feel old and beaten. The sun is not yet risen and tears sting my eyes.

My phone rings and i pick it up. There is very little to interest or excite in the conversation. I know what we will speak. How it will be. An automated conversation. Played out every morning. I dare not say anything or ask anything or even be impatient in my desires. I have to be careful with the other who is like a child, an abusive child who can hurt me due his insecurities. If I am bubbly, excited, alive or eager, i share that mood. The days i wake up feeling this deadness, i try to fake it. To summon a feeling of normalcy. It is important. For his sanity. For my child's sake. For my safety and sanity. For the drama that we need to play for the world's sake. For the failure that we cannot show to the world, yet again. For the kindness i need to summon from deep within against an abuser because i am mentally stronger than him and kinder. And, because I can. And he cannot.

I need to strengthen myself from the pain of abuse and i need to continue to make him feel good about himself, boost his self-image because it is so fragile. So i shrink myself a little more, and clip my wings a little. I need to. If this has to work, i cannot fly the skies with a companion. He would not only doubt if he can fly, he would make me doubt if i can fly, and if i had ever flown, and all the while  i would remember the innumerable heights i have soared and the blueness aof the skies i have known. I need to clip my wings so that we are both broken without wings and we could forever beat our broken bodies in the ground. That is the only companionship that is possible, that is the promise of the tomorrow.

Around me laughter spills. There are couples dancing, their eyes flirt, and their hands own their patrner's bodies in familiar, unfamiliar ways. I sit amidst the whirling couples, a lonely married spinster. I would have given anything to have a man, hold me with pride and joy as we twirled away. I think of all the ones who would have loved to have me in their arms. But i ache alone. I turn to look at what should be the joy of my life, he is fast asleep amidst the crowd. I can only politely refuse the offers of other gentlemen and ache alone for arms that i would never know or have.

These are dark secrets i can speak to no one. No one cares. And, they will not understand. They have not lived the million lives i have. They do not know the hundreds of times i have fallen and risen. I wake. I exist now. I come alive in occasional moments sparkling with my old vivaciousness, my mind and spirit free and soaring. Then, the raised eyebrows of society reminds me of what i should be. They look at my bare arms, they look at the fact that rules do not apply to me and why they should. And, the old familiar icy coldness descends in to me. I remember that i am a married woman, a woman in a dead marriage that i can scarce talk about.

I weep no longer. Tears are still a sign of hope. My tears have dried up. I wonder how long this can go on ? And, then you came in to my life. Reminding me of all what I was. Bringing a promise. And, I ache for you now. I ache for the life I know we cannot have.'

Mitra stopped reading. She had forgotten the presence of others in the room. The child snuggled up to her for warmth, not understanding the words but sensing some deep emotion. Dia and Margaret had not spoken a word. Dia got up slowly, and went out. She came back with a glass of water which she silenty handed over to Mitra.

It was then that Mitra cried. Like she could never stop. - From 'Six Tits' - my upcoming novel

Waking up from the dream

I know that this is a dream.
All around me things are swirling.
People rushing by.
Intent and purposeful,
living their lives.
All around me people are feeling.
Thinking. Acting.
Laughing. Crying. Dancing. Wanting.
In a trance I watch.
Just observing the drama.
I speak and yet my words seem faraway.
My thoughts float.
They come and go.
Whimsically, I act on them
or just let them go.
I know that this is all a dream.
I am just a character.
Just like all the others.
The events, they come and go.
The perceived emotions,
they give them color.
A meaning. A value.
The events they come and go.
They touch me not.
I am but a dream.
And, in that awareness,
the question emerges,
Who is this Me that is aware of the dream?

-          Srividya Srinivasan 3/6/2015 

Dance of my life

I am laughing,
the moment holds me in thrall.
Alive, beautiful, full of promise.
So achingly beautiful,
that words fail.
My eyes crinkle.
my smile widens
as my spirit dances...


Past the yet-to-settle smile,
a rush of pain sneaks in,
needing but a split second,
Loneliness follows behind,
casting a vulnerability so fragile
that I can scarce breathe,
A million memories flood in,
a million aches...
I freeze.


Dancing in the moment,
I ache.
Dancing in joy
aching within.

A million aches
familiar and new.
A million joys
holding me in thrall
as I ache.

- Srividya Srinivasan 31/3/2105

Flirting with Time

I rushed about madly,
scared that time was running out.
Time stood still watching me,
waiting for me to come
to a standstill.
I do not perceive its pace,
amidst my frenetic one.

Everything is a blur,
my heightened awareness
screaming its aliveness,
into my being.

I stand in the middle of it all,
calm and still.
All about me is the whirling madness
as Time rushes by.
I wait for Time
to come to a standstill.

Everything is clear,
my heightened awareness,
whispering my awareness
into my being.

We are even.
We are one.
In the stillness.
Time and I.

- Srividya Srinivasan 14/03/2015

Calm

A great calm has descended over me,
casting its spell amidst the madness.
I no longer rush in to add my bit,
have lost the eagerness to explain,
to be understood.

I am an observer now of my own
small dramas and the world's dramas,
a part of it all, and yet not quite.

My grouses first went to a corner
and hopefully,
have slunk away forever.
My victimhood has been abandoned,
the cross slowly disintegrating
out of misuse.

I have lost the need to compete or compare
my former selves to this new self,
except, in recognition of this dawning calm.

I embrace my older, volatile self with love,
and ask her to find a place beside this new me.
Her motives are genuine, even if she does
wear her emotions on her sleeve.

And, we sit in companionable silence,
my older selves and this newer me.
content to just be.
Watching. Observing.
Drinking it all in.

Others.
Myself.
Me in others.
Others in me.


- Srividya Srinivasan 14/03/2015

The Single Mother

The single mother sings a lullaby for two;
the strong one the child turns to,
the man of the house she has to be,
the gentle one the child turns to,
the woman of the house she has to be.

Her fears are not to be her child’s,
Her tears are to be her own,
shed in the dead of the night,
all alone.
She dare not long for herself,
nor dream anymore.
Oh, what can the future possibly hold?

Giant shadows of fear
chase her through the night,
as the world asks, is that right?
Oh, how could you be so bold?

As the darkness falls,
and the walls close in,
The single mother
sings a lullaby for two,
She who sleeps with
her eyes wide open,
beside a trusting child.
She, sings a lullaby bold.

- Srividya Srinivasan, March 2, 2015

Living through the scars

We shall forever be battling our scars, healing ourselves from the deep scars of childhood, to the awkward scars of adolescence, the hard scars of adulthood and scars of frail old age. In the answering spark in another's eyes, the cosy laughter of friends, and the circle of family, we rush to heal, heal our scars. In the eyes of a complete stranger, we finally find our balm until they are a stranger no more, and then we scar again, only to bleed again. - SS

The words of silence

When we speak to a person who does not love us, our words seem to fall in mid air. The room resonates with our words like they have not hit the target. You reach a stage where you wonder if you even spoke anything. - Srividya Srinivasan 

Surreal realities

I wonder what an event is when there is no perspective or emotion for the observer. Does the event exist in one's memory ?

- Srividya Srinivasan

The spark in the eye

I saw the old wary look in a young child's eyes and a sparkle and a twinkle in an old woman's eyes. There was a lump in my throat that I could scarce control for both. The human experience is precious indeed. - Srividya Srinivasan

May be we are all only thoughts...

Maybe we are all only thoughts and thoughts are the only things that exist. Floating around, seamless, ageless, moorless, stretching unto eternity. Maybe I am a thought projected as a person. A thought that was a person long ago. A thought that is me now. A thought that would arise as me in many lives to come. Maybe I am a thought conjured up long long ago by someone. And, the thoughts that running through me now will be a person someday ? Maybe we are all nothing but thoughts

- Srividya Srinivasan

Child She He

The child had to be admitted to school. The school that everyone went to. Home schooling was definitely an option. But, they had decided to give it one try before considering schooling the child themselves. So, it was settled between them all to brave the outside world. Finally, it was time to widen the circle. To see, if they could let the others in. 

They had fallen in love with each other, intensely, passionately, their souls instantly fusing to shut out the world. None existed around them. He changed his name to Mr.She and she became Mrs.He. Their identities merged. The world laughed at him, for has any man given up his identity for a woman or borne her name and survived?  He shrugged and grinned. He had no loss of identity by becoming Mr.She. He was proud to bear the tag as her partner, as the lover of her body and free spirit. To take on her identity was an honour. She wore the tag of Mrs.He with equal pride, flaunting it with a brazenness that was terrifying intense to others who wore theirs as matter of social security. 

And, yet they were not married. Technically, at least by the world’s standards. He saw the fire in her eyes, and she saw the answering spark in his and there it was, a marriage by fire. Sacred was their union and unwavering was their love. Their identities had fused to the point that they needed no social sanction. To the world they were sinners, but they cared not for the world nor its values. They only knew this. The world was an outsider to their sacred union. Letting in the world and its opinions, morals and its structures was a sin, like their intimacy was put out on trial for the titillation of the public. The only religion they practised was love. In all forms, physical, mental and spiritual. They flowed into their silences as they flowed into their conversations, picking up silences that they left off midway or conversations they closed years later. The presence of the others into something as sacred as intimacy was almost blasphemous to them. The only third that they welcomed was the child, born out of their beautiful union and passion. A sacred reminder of their fusion. They gave it a name Child She He.  

The child grew in love, fostered in silence and harmonious conversations, in wonder and awe of love and all things natural and profound. They studied nature together and their spirits often spoke in harmony and yet not a word was spoken in the teaching. 

The boy stepped into the class. His carriage was proud. He looked different from the others. Talked and walked differently. He spoke words in the language they all understood and yet he spoke them differently. Slowly, deeply. As if, he meant every word. They seemed to come from some source deep within him. He spelt his name clearly. Child She He. They all tittered. Who is She that you bear her name? All our names just have Name He. The one from whose womb I came, he said proudly. I am product of the love of two people She and He. I shall bear her name first before his with pride, as she bore me with pride, he said. They fell silent, confused and unable to answer him. 

He looked around. The girl across the room caught his eye. His eyes sparked. He smiled. There was an answering spark in her eyes. It was like there were no one else in the class room. 

- Srividya Srinivasan

Desire

'The body and skin respond to the human touch in ways that the mind can scarce discern. But the mind is very involved, an eager participant and creator of desire. The body responds of its own accord pulsing, throbbing, craving fulfilment indifferent to the label one would fix to a partner, while the mind rejoices in feeding it with secret pictures. Be not fooled that the rock bed of a steady marriage lies in the fatherly touch from an elderly husband or the icy indifference or passive submissiveness of an indifferent wife and that fidelity lies in the mindless repetitions of a cold act of the parting of legs, or the panting of breaths. You need to be comfortable in your skin to be a lover. You cannot create desire. You feel desire. It needs a special eye and touch to be a lover, to be lovers, a certain coming together of mind and body where the repetition is desired. A familiar coming home to, where the uncertainty of the exact moment of outpouring lends it spontaneity. Familiar lovers lead exciting lives because they come together in desire irrespective of who has initiated it and when. The unexpected is often the magic.'  - An excerpt from '6 Tits; by Srividya Srinivasan