What is the Color of Silence

Silence is Golden,
It glitters,
In the eyes,
Of those who hold it dear.

Silence is Golden,
That is what my mother told me,
Took my truths to the bank,
Oh, the riches I amassed.

Silence is Green.

Silence is Golden,
Greedily, I hoard my booty,
Storing the spoils,
For the inevitable conflict.

Silence is Red.

Silence is Golden,
The yellow blade wielded brandishly,
By myself,
At myself,
Silence is Black.

Silence is Black,
Yet religiously,
I hang on,
To its’ brilliance.
Yes....its true....Silence is Black.

My Promise

I literally wrote this one almost in a dream, rather in some kind of a trance…and then woke up and transcribed it immediately… still working on the meaning…..

You threw it at me…
In the form of a promise
And I caught it
Tight in my lips
And swallowed it
So you could never take it back…..

~~~ DEATH OF A CHILDHOOD ~~~

There are moments in your life that are defining, times that shape you for what is to come in life. I have decided to write about one of those defining moments from my fictional childhood, in hopes that my story will help even one person. The title of this story might sound a bit idiosyncratic. That would be me....eccentric. You will understand why I named it this as you read.

On April 7, 2006, Kathie Lee Gifford hosted the “Larry King Live Show” on CNN. The topic was sexual child abuse. I watched that night and knew it was time to tell my story.

I listened as several guests told of their childhood experiences of sexual abuse. Actresses Catherine Oxenburg, Alison Arngrim from “Little House on the Prairie” fame, and Joyce Meyer, Minister were the panelists that evening. Those ladies told their stories with such grace and courage.

Between interviews, video clips were played from Oprah Winfrey, Terri Hatcher of “Desperate Housewives,” actress Anne Heche, Goldie Hawn and more. Each of them had a unique story to tell. One of not being a victim, but of being a survivor.

It’s no longer the “dirty little secret” as it was in my day. Now, as women, many of us are able to speak out, say what happened and try to stop it from ever happening to another child. It is no longer a private family secret, but something we sadly see on the news each and every day. More sadly, the crime of sexual abuse against children seems to be getting worse. Or was it always there, only kept in the dark? Is the monster under the bed finally out in the open?

Before I begin telling my story, let me quote a line from the movie, “The Color Purple.” Sofia, played by Oprah Winfrey spoke so eloquently the words written by Alice Walker. “All my life I had to fight. I had to fight my daddy. I had to fight my uncles. I had to fight my brothers. A girl child ain't safe in a family of men...” POWERFUL WORDS! Powerful and so true.

I was seven years old. It was 1957. My parents were divorcing and my life was upside down. A child that age has no concept of the dynamics surrounding divorce, nor do they know the emotions and conflicts that the adults around them face. All I knew was my daddy was gone. That’s all I knew.

I refuse to name my molester. He, as many of the men who were in my life at that time, is long gone. There would be no changing what happened by naming him, nor would it give me any comfort to do so. I forgave him many, many years ago. I’ll leave it that he was a family member.

It happened one day at our family home. There’s no use going into the gory details, but just to say it happened. Much of my childhood is a blank for me. I have no memory of the most of it, only small vignettes or mental snapshots here and there. What I do remember with clarity are my feelings in that time. Not the life I led, but how I felt. The emotions. There are some years that are a complete blank. This was not one of them.

I remember it in vivid, stark detail, as if it were yesterday. I remember laying there on the floor of my bedroom at the mercy of this person, naked, my heart pounding, terrified, undone, helpless. I remember sweat pouring off my body. I remember the coppery taste of fear in my mouth. I remember rolling my head back and forth on the floor, begging him to stop. I remember the room, the smells, the barren terror. I remember the pain of betrayal, the shattered trust in one of the ones who was supposed to protect me. I remember crying so hard I had the hiccups little children get. I remember every detail of it all too well. Sometimes I wish this were one of those blank spots in my memory. But it’s not. It is not for a reason.

When I was there in that moment, helpless and filled with fear, I was a victim. When I went to my aunt later that day and told her in graphic detail what had happened, I was a victim. A spinning pin came up in her hand and hovered over my face. She went into a rage and screamed at me, “Don’t you ever say that about him again or I will kill you!” Yes, then I was a victim. A child. Innocence gone, betrayed by those who should have protected me. A victim.

Am I a victim now? Not in the least. I am a survivor. Did it shape my life from that day forward? Yes. It did and still does. I’d often wondered why I had so many blank spots from my childhood. After watching the show on CNN that night, I think I know. Those brave women gave me the answer to a lifelong question. It’s a basic, built in survival instinct. Many times I have to call my brother and ask him to tell me about those years. He fills in the blanks when I am writing of our childhood, reminding me of times, places, people. Sometimes I recall something, sometimes he literally tells the story for me.

There are mental health professionals who adhere to taking you back and revisiting childhood trauma. Bringing you back to that time and recovering your lost memories. Those people give me the creepy feeling. Why in God’s name would anyone want to go back to that, dig it all up, resurrect the dead?? I have a feeling more happened to me than I remember, but damned be I if I want to go drag it out and ask it to play nice. Whatever happened, whatever Boogie Man is back there can just stay where he is. I have no desire to remember. If the rest of those early years are lost in a black hole along with him, so be it.

I never told anyone after I told my aunt that day. Not until years later. I turned it inside. The lesson my aunt taught me that day was that you might be killed if you tried to tell anyone. Or at least that’s what my seven year old self understood. How many times would you have to be flogged about the head and body by a flying spinning pin, clenched in your enraged aunt’s hand to actually die? No one would believe me if my own aunt didn‘t, so I kept it inside, only to take it out now and then when I was alone, to think of it, mull it over, try to make sense of it....It never did make sense.

My father never knew, my large extended family never knew until I told a sparse few of them decades later. Dad went to his grave never knowing. Mother went to hers with us never discussing it again. I was 23 years old when I tried to tell my equally young husband. Now I know he was as immature as I was and he didn’t “get it.” He wouldn’t hear me or couldn’t hear me that day, so again, I sent it back inside.

I told a few close female friends through the years and when my daughters were old enough, I told them. More like I warned them. My husband, after he’d “ripened” a bit with age, tried to discuss it with me, but to no avail. The subject was closed after I tried the first time. He always did say I was the most stubborn woman alive. He’s right. To this day, we’ve never talked about it. And never will.

I was in my late thirties when I finally told a close female family member. Eventually I told others. Most of them never knew and will never know who it was. Just that it was. I am just getting to the point in my life that I can talk openly about it. You don’t get much more open than this. Unless you’re invited to be on CNN.

I hear all the statistics about what a girl child will do later in life once sexually abused. All I will say is they are true for the most part. Seeking approval was my thing. Being crushed if I didn’t find that approval was another. If someone didn’t like me, I was destroyed. That passed with age. Now I know that not everyone will like me and that’s okay. I don’t particularly care for some people myself.

I don’t consider myself a statistic. I can only speak to what I know. All of my life, with the exception of on paper, I tended to internalize what pained me most. One of my daughters recently pointed that out to me. “Mom, you need to stop keeping it all in.” Well, after all these years, this old dog can’t seem to learn that trick. It came from the threat of the spinning pin and from my dads mantra of, “You keep crying and everyone will give you something to cry about. Dry it up!” So, I dried it up before I got worse than what made me cry to begin with.

It didn’t matter if you were beaten black and blue and had blood and brains spurting out your ears. You’d better suck it up and not cry. God forbid, in my home once I went to live with my uncle and aunt, that I mention missing my mother. That would get you a beating to end all beatings. All while being told you would never be anything but a whore like your mother...whore like your mother... No wonder why I kept it all inside. There was no support system. There was nothing.

There are times, to this day, that I will be under such emotional stress that my face feels as if it were carved from granite. I have to literally massage my face to make it relax. Keeping it all in. Steeling myself. Don’t show your emotions. Let everyone think you are happy. Peppy. Delirious with joy. Funny, witty, all that and a bag of chips, but don’t let them see what hurts. Keep that in or suffer the spinning pin or worse. When I do allow myself the luxury of falling apart, I fall apart completely and it takes forever to put Humpty Dumpty together again. Man, I hate when that happens.

One of my most profound “flaws” in life was trying to “fix” everyone else. I couldn’t fix myself, but I’d do anything to mend someone else’s hurts. It always killed me to see another person in emotional pain. Maybe that’s because my own was so overwhelming.

Self-esteem is another issue I have struggled with all my life...Or the lack thereof. I realize I’ve veered off the train track I was on in telling this story, but it all ties together in my mind. The child that lay on that cold floor being traumatized is still in me somewhere. She tells me now and then, when I don’t have her bound, gagged and stuffed into a corner, that I deserved what I got. She told me all my life what a worthless junk of humanity I was.

That added to the daily death, my mother giving me up to my dad and his child bride, my aunt, soon after the sexual abuse and an uncle who told me incessantly I was fat, ugly, uneducated, basically worthless, so no one would have me and a step-mother who resented the very air I breathed in her house, sealed the deal. Boy, that was a long sentence, but pretty well sums it up. It took years...decades, to come to terms with that. It’s not something I will ever “get over,” but something I have learned to deal with and live with. What does not kill you only serves to make you stronger.

There are voices from your past. We all have them. Not the little voices that cause the men in little white coats to come find you, but the voices who cause you to remember, to re-live.

Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. I think this one is a common bond among childhood sexual abuse survivors. Somehow an immature, traumatized psyche gets in its head that this was somehow your fault. Not his, but yours. It certainly did mine. As I grew older in childhood, I was sure everyone could look at me and just know. I was sure that I had a big, flashing neon sign on my forehead, telling everyone of my shame. I was very sure this had only happened to me and no other girl child. God, I had to have been guilty of something!

That guilt morphed into feeling guilty and responsible for every wrong in my world. If Johnny stole Susie’s pencil in school, surely everyone thought I did it. I was the “bad girl” in the scheme of life. I’d done something wrong back when I was seven, so of course, everyone thought I stole the pencil. No one actually did, but let a situation similar to that happen and I would duck my head, slump down in my desk chair, hide my face and just knew everyone branded me guilty....Everyone was looking at me The Guilty Party. See how it works in the mind of a child? I thought I’d done something wrong when in fact, wrong was done to me.

My past caused me to be overly protective of my daughters in particular. Not that I’m foolish enough to believe this doesn’t happen to boys, but that I knew for sure it happened to girls. When an older, close male relative of ours became too touchy feely with myself and other female family members, I stopped allowing my girls to go to his house. That lasted almost twenty years, until he passed away. To insure they would not go through what I did, they were not allowed to have a relationship of any sort with him unless I was present.

I had my first “nervous breakdown” at age fifteen. For days, I was curled into a fatal position, crying and unable to stop. In fact, I was screaming for help, but no help was given. My father called his doctor and was told to give me what dad was taking for his nerves. He gave it to me and I managed to be so sedated that I set a skillet of grease on fire and try to carry it out of the house. I didn’t make it outside. Instead I dropped the flaming grease and fell down in it, causing horrible burns on my hands, arms and torso. That was the only reason I was taken to see the doctor.

Health care was scarce. I can understand to a degree. We weren’t wealthy. But I needed help desperately for my mental condition at that time. It was never addressed. I was told I would get over it. Or I’d better get over...Or I’d be given something to cry about.

For most of my adult life and to this day, I have been on anti-depressants. It took many years of trying to find the right one, but finally I was put on one that deals with depression and anxiety. For once, I levelled out. I did no longer have to steel myself, to suck it up, to handle it on my own.

I sought the advice of counselling in my church many times. It was a Band-Aid to place on a haemorrhaging wound. It helped at the time, but never got to the core issues. A few short years ago, I emailed an online friend who is a mental health professional. Bless her darling heart, she gave so much more to me than she will ever know. She allowed not only me to speak, to empty out all of the grief, but she allowed the little girl I once was to speak. She had been stuffed in that dark corner all too long.

For weeks, she advised me, listened to me and in the end, helped me come to terms with so much of my childhood and present. I will always be eternally grateful to her for her compassion and care. She will know when she reads this that she is the reason I am able to write my story.

Hurricane Katrina brought back the anxiety attacks and caused memories I had stuffed down so deep to resurface. That’s why they call it Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Those things from your past come back to haunt you if they are not swiftly dealt with as soon as they rear their ugly heads. With time, they have subsided.
The little girl who was in a dark corner is now speaking out...loudly and with a voice that demands to be heard. The little girl who cringed in fear is now strong and willing to share her sadness, her sorrow, her pain with other little girls who live inside women who are reading this.

Forgiving him. I had to. It was a choice I made and one I could live with. Before he died, it was brought to his attention by another family member that I remembered. That it had damaged me. He planned to come to me, ask me for forgiveness, even though that same family member told him I’d already forgiven him. He needed to do this. Needed it desperately. Sadly, he left this earth before he could talk to me in person. It was left unspoken, but I know he meant to and that makes all the difference. It gives me peace to know that he knew in his final days, even though he didn’t get to hear it from my lips, which he was forgiven a thousand times over.

Forgiveness isn’t always for the perpetrator, but for the one doing the forgiving. Hanging onto it, letting a lack of forgiveness brew, will only make it worse. Like an infection, it spreads, contaminating your entire being and those around you. I can’t tell others what to do, but can only speak to what I felt I needed to do. Not forgiving him would have made me bitter, hard, unyielding. Forgiving gave me the strength to tell my story. Forgiving gave me peace. Forgiving let that wounded little girl finally heal.

I am a survivor. I survived childhood.

The Wrenching Sadness of a Lullaby

There is something magical about a lullaby. It is almost impossible to listen to one without responding to it with an emotion that one never fully understands. Lullabies soothe, comfort and lull the awake into sleep. They help babies feel protected and cocooned as they slip away into the tender arms of sleep.

Mothers envelop their little ones with a musical translation of the overwhelming love they feel. Why then are lullabies almost always so sad? Why do lullabies tremble with some deep indefinable sense of liquid melancholy? Why do they ache with a nameless yearning for things lost and things that cannot be found? Think of any lullaby and you will be struck by the tinge of sweet sadness that accompanies it.

Think of a “nanhi kali sone chali…”, “dheere se aaja re ankhiyan mein…”, “mere ghar aayi ek nanhi pari…” or Shubha Mudgal’s “so ja…” and you will observe this recurring pattern. Often the words, too, like in the case of the all-time favourite “rock-a-bye-baby” are less than soothing. Across cultures, the lullaby carries traces of sorrow.
The purpose of the lullaby is anything but sad. The baby needs soothing and absolute protection from all sources of fear. The lullaby imitates the rocking motion of the cradle with simple repetitive phrases and a basic melody. But unlike the nursery rhyme where the melody produces little emotional effect, the lullaby infuses everyone listening with a powerful sense of longing. Why is this so universally true?

In some ways perhaps, the musical structure of lullabies in their desire to soothe, come close to those of dirges. The slowness and the tenderness of the tune makes it melancholic. In that sense, it could be argued that sadness is not really intrinsic to the lullaby but merely a musical by-product. The words are not important; just as martial tunes evoke parades and religious songs generate a sense of immersive piety, so do lullabies evoke a sense of quietude that overlaps with sadness.

As an explanation, however, this is not satisfying enough. There is something more at work here. Perhaps, the mother uses emotion to make a deeper connection with the baby; sadness deepens the bond between mother and child, and helps communicate her feelings better.

Or perhaps, the lullaby becomes a channel for the mother’s own sense of incompleteness. Often lullabies have words that talk about a husband who is away or of distance between mother and child and sometimes even about death.

The idea that sleep is a form of little death is a common enough one. The lullaby might be our way of playing with the idea of death. There is a sense of separation and the baby’s going away to distant lands that evokes a feeling of deep sadness that is all the more powerful because it is not real. It is a rehearsal of sadness that must eventually be ours. It allows us a foretaste of tragedy even as we celebrate the birth of the newborn.
But perhaps the strongest feeling evoked by lullabies is that of nostalgia. We yearn for something pure, tender and innocent when we listen to a lilting lullaby. We long for reaching a part of us we never can. It is this realization that perhaps is at the heart of a lullaby’s ineffable sadness. For the nostalgia we feel is the nostalgia for the womb. The mother gently pines for that sense of intact completeness when she sings melancholically for her little one.

As listeners, we long to be complete again but know that we cannot. The lullaby is nothing but the song of the baby being cast adrift ever so slowly on the painfully solitary journey called life. As adults when we hear this song, we are reminded of what we have lost in some nameless way. The lullaby tells us that what is most beautiful and what makes us feel the purest emotions is also the most transient. We see the magic of life only as it disappears slowly from our eyes.

May be, the lullaby is just a gentle chronicle of a life told in reverse.

~~ Deepest Fear ~~

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, “Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?”
Actually, who are you not to be?
You are a child of God.
Your playing small does not serve the world.
There is nothing enlightened about shrinking
so that other people won't feel insecure around you.
We are all meant to shine, as children do.
We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.
It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

~~ Knowing God ~~

I have looked at life from both sides now... From win and lose and still somehow... It's life's illusions I recall... and sometimes I feel that I really don't know life at all.... one of the various things that puzzle me is “GOD”

So… do you believe in God? This is a question often asked of me, and one I ask of myself as frequently. It's also a question that cannot be addressed without offending someone. The concept of higher mind or power, regardless of name, is ever appealing and its veracity eminently plausible given the interactive precision of structures and events that make up the human reality. But it's a crowded market, the god market, so which god exactly?


The God of gods, the supreme power sitting above all manipulating and puppeting our thoughts and deeds, the one true God, the god capable of loving Hitler, the god who seduces mortal women, the merciful god who saves a child lost in the forest and takes the lives of hundreds in an earthquake or typhoon, or perhaps the god of peace or war, or the creator, preserver and destroyer, or the god who built the dinosaurs, then drove them to extinction? Or, perhaps a futuristic god - an almighty that we multi-cellular bipeds of today cannot imagine beyond hypothesizing that all concepts of god entertained by man millennia hence will not include even trinket memories of what we believe in today.

Yes, I do believe in God, but I have no idea what God is and I doubt anyone who says he does. And this last is the most difficult part for me. Since childhood, when I first realized that the man of our local priest did not embody the words spoken by him, I've been unable to sustain a belief in a god so feeble, a god so much in need of "select" individuals to define and translate him that he bows to indelible human weakness as a means of communication.

There is no pope that is not a man, no rabbi, no mullah, no priest, teacher or guru that is not a man or a woman. And men are imperfect. Therefore assessments of the divine derived by them, regardless of their title and stature in the temporal world remains a narrow and inadequate measure upon which to discern original truth, the mind of God or exact a dissertation on human design.

I have turned to such men and agree they are profound, but life cannot complete a man and death hides his ultimate story. How then are we to judge the accuracy of any faith arising from men when so many believed for millennia that the Earth was the centre of the universe, that disease was the manufacture of evil spirits and that blood flowing through our veins was an impossible idea?

Errors in perception persist; belief in God, however deep, however strident, is not and cannot be equivalent to the God of belief.

At the risk of sounding harsh I would say that no "master" equals the power of God, and so he lacks the right to speak for or about God from a position superior to that of the average man. Nor has any man returned from the dead with viable proof of an immortal God and life eternal beyond the flesh. Failing proof of the same, a God defined by our present understanding of immortality evokes doubt in the reality of that God.

A conundrum indeed and one that brings us to another equally difficult question: Why do I believe? Why does anyone believe?

In a world where the line drawn between placebo and actual eludes direct observation, where no two people see the world from an equivalent perspective and all perspective evaluations are biased from the human point of view, belief, though it differs from person to person, is one ingredient in the mix that provides an adjudicative role over our lives.

Perhaps the God of our belief is our belief - an internal reality nominated by us to arbitrate the weight we cannot bear, the wisdom we cannot fathom and the purpose we cannot define.

Belief in God is human - an evolving adaptation of advantage over adverse circumstance that none will relinquish once attained. Belief is our ultimate bridge to survival, the vision to attribute unknown forces behind inchoate shadows in the night, a mechanism designed to shelter the mind from hostile uncertainty and reason to coalesce individuals into groups for greater fortification and procreation.

In the town where I lived, a woman suffering from serious financial and health problems and struggling to raise a son of 13, who is near deaf, blind in one eye and often debilitated by a weak heart and stomach, told me that she believed in God, that her belief was strong and God would save her and her son.

Though it may appear blind, God, even if it is just an idea - because ideas apart from what they define have power - has the power to direct human attention and consequently, human action, hope and purpose.

Yes, I do believe in God, in my way, and in my way I am connected to all beliefs. Still, I wonder, would a good man who believes in God remain a good man if he did not believe in God?

Yet another first time....

No matter how confident we are. No matter how much we have seen in life. Still whenever it is something that is happening for the first time in our life, it leaves butterflies in our stomach. We get nervous. Another first time event is awaiting me and I am nervous. Shit Nervous. Dead Nervous. But it is still a very nice feeling. Strange but nice.

Don't ask me what is this event. It could be anything. And while I am writing this, there is another thing on my mind. Call it a thought, a cloud of emotions or just a bubble.

With million smiles spread across my face,
I yet have a few pores open,
though covered with the sands of time,
but still hurt when touched or paid heed to.
A broken guitar is hidden,
somewhere in the dark corners of my heart,
and whenever a chord is struck,
even if unknowingly,
it hitherto plays a sad note.
Leaves an empty feeling,
sort of being hollow inside,
even if it lasts for seconds few.
Stitches no matter how old,
still leave a mark,
though completely faded,
the sense of that pain remains,
when brushed lightly with a soft touch.

I want peace that lasts forever,
and a healing that makes me feel free,
and doesnt remind me of my scars that were.
I want 'me' like how I was,
when I was not how I am.

P.S. Got any opinion about any first time event of your life? Why don't you share it with me in the comments section? As in, how did you overcome your initial nervousness and once through with the event how proud did you feel about yourselves.

~~ High Tide ~~

With the heat of your love,
I am melting in your heart,
drop by drop,
brushing your soul lightly,
with my skin,
my lips quivering to know you,
through words unsaid,
through the waves that you,
are creating around me...
addicted to living
allergic to life...

The quiet river that I was,
you are turning me into an ocean,
and trust me...
today,
you are my moon,
and the tide is high...!!

~~ Soul of a woman ~~

I smile. I cry. I laugh. I dance. I sing. I jump around. I write. I express. I think a lot. I am pure. I am corrupted. I am a devil, yet in a divine way. I am a woman who is practical, emotional, confused and yet sure of everything. To find out more you need to peep into the "Soul of A Woman".

A woman thinks, feels and calculates a lot more than she expresses. She is as deep as the ocean. She is more about the depth than what is visible on the surface. So, feel free to dive in.
~Soul of A Woman - You can never know it enough!~

It's the same soul but the face is new..
a million thoughts pass by,
but expressible are just few..
some are told, some not,
some just die like a malnutrition tot.
but not for long,
not enough..
they can't be killed..
so..
deal with them..
love them..
talk to them..
and try to understand..
it's your mind..
it's your soul..
oh yes...
The Soul of a Woman...

Of realizations,
and a few steps watched,
a new journey,
and someone special beside.
Hopes anew,
and soul reflected,
in the eyes.
I still smile,
with my heart.

I care, I share,
I am genuine inside.
I hurt, I heal.
I love, I desire.
I like to please,
and get admired.
In short, I am,
yet a human,
yet alive..

It hasn’t turned me,
into a machine,
the heartless materialism around.

Even today,
I look at myself,
in the mirror,
and wish,
“Gosh! Don’t change,
not for anyone, my dear,
I treasure you.”

26 years gone,
and may be the innocence,
has gathered some dust,
and the purity has,
withered off a little.
But yet, I am "me"
and don't want to be,
anything else.

May be wrong,
with a million flaws,
and confusions, I may be.
But at night when I close my eyes,
I dream of a new day,
where I am "me".
And almost each day,
in these years,
it has been a reality,
my dream.

I am the smile,
mixed with a few wet tears.
I am the dew,
under your morning feet.
I am the petal,
getting soft at your touch.
I am, what you are,
when happiness dawns...

For a few moments

For a few moments,
I don’t want to understand,
I don’t want to know it all,
I don’t want to ignore myself,
And that pampering I am craving for,
I don’t want to be a woman,
All sane and mature.

For a few moments,
I want to be understood,
I want to be known by you,
Through and through,
I want you to ignore yourself,
So that you can see me all around,
And in you too,
Also give me the pampering that I need.
I want you to be the man,
Without that sanity and maturity.

Just for a few moments,
We could come out of the rules of the world,
And be 'ourselves',
Without having to understand,
Or showing that we do.

I wish we could,
Forget our levels of sanity,
And maturity,
And unlearn all that,
'Load of understanding'.

I wish we could,
Just lose ourselves into each other,
For long insane hours,
For immature moments,
So that we are 'misunderstood'
By everyone around.

I want to be a piece of ice,
Dripping in your heart, slowly,
And feeling your love,
And I don’t want to judge you,
By what happens outside of you.

I don’t want to see you from the outside,
I want to see you from within,
And get cosy with your shimmering soul.

Conceal me within you,
Please!
The world is filthy,
And sometimes you are too.
My eyes hurt.
Hide me within you,
I don't want to burn outside,
alone.....

~~ YOU ~~

You, my friend, are quicksilver and miracles.
You, my friend, are the space those miracles left behind.
You, my friend, are the sea in a jar.
You, my friend, are the midnight car racer who only wants to fly.
You, my friend, are the doors and cold moons in my mind.
You, my friend, are the passion and the brilliance and the bitterness
That remains behind in my soul
When all else is gone.

You, my friend, are breakfast and madness.
You, my friend, are the prince of this late summer institution.
You, my friend, are the air, clear as tears,
a soft medicine straight from the sky.

You, my friend, with your awe-inspiring smile
with your obscure wisdom
with your obsessions and compulsions
with your clean nails
with your barrier sweatshirt
with your rooftops and running
with your fear of germs
with your thick dark hair
with your knowing coffee-colored eyes
with your troubled past
with your thoughts of life
with your edge of fate
with your fresh laundry
with your hands of chess and stories
with your fear of heights and loneliness
with your darkness and your light
with your wish to summer camp with sad kids
with your mysteries and questions
with your triumphs and failures
with your newspaper lines
with your stories of home
with your parents and your family…

You, my friend, can’t see or hear
I am screaming inside my head.
If only you could see I’m with you in this madness,
I could let myself speak the truth,
but I’m afraid if I open my mouth, I’ll scream,
and if I scream, I won’t be able to stop.

You, my friend, dance with the shadows.
You, my friend, speak to the sky.
You, my friend, see the truth and the lies.
You, my friend, are the shadow of my dreams.
You, my friend, are red.
I am red. Red. Blood red.
My friend, we are both blood red.
My friend, we are two flamingos on fire.

Today...

Today
was the same as
yesterday.
And the day before
that.
And the day before
that.

The fortune teller said
I have a long life
ahead of me.
I may even live
to be
117 years old.

So…what is that
supposed to mean
to me?
Am I supposed to be
happy
That I may even have
104 years left
ahead of
me?

That
would be
37986 days.
911,664 hours
54,699,840 minutes.
3,281,990,400 seconds.

And yet as I watch
This clock on
the wall
It's not moving
at all
It's just frozen
in time.
If it doesn't move
soon,
I'm quite ready
to
Go out of
my mind.

If every single
second
Lasts as long
as this one does,
I'll die inside
And face an
eternity
Of somnambulism
Soullessly
Before I
reach
the end,
Before, I, finally
die...

~~ Goodbye ~~

Darling, I love you

But I only make you cry

All of this pain,
Does it fade when I die?

I only wish for you, there was

Some better way

To say,

Goodbye...

~~ Happiness ~~

Happiness evades me...

Time flies...

Which way to go?

Which key to chose?

I'm simply chasing the stars

No matter how fast I run

No matter how far

Those stars always slip away from me

Somehow...

~~ Heartbeats ~~

They say...
our hearts
beat around
2 billion times
in our lifetime.

I wonder
how many
has mine
beaten
so far?

It's kind of
scary, when
you think
about it.

Every time
it beats,
you're
one beat
closer
to
death.

How do
you know
you'll live
to feel the
beat
again?


You don't.
You can't.
You won't.
You can never tell.

And that's
what
scares
me.

I have
no way
of knowing
when
or if
it's going to
begin
or
end....

~~ Veracity ~~

People are lucky and unlucky not according to what they get absolutely, but according to the ratio between what they get and what they have been led to expect. Sometimes I feel I am the chosen one – chosen to deal with one problem after another. My mind yearns for peace. I am sick and tired of the restlessness I’ve been experiencing since ages now. Sometimes I want my brain to go dead…

…and sometimes I feel I’m being so ungrateful.

Every time everything seems to go right
Something precious to me goes out of sight
You wish to win and gain, yet to gain you need to lose some
I wish it wasn’t YOU who had to be the reason why I’m in such a confusion

I get a smile, a door opened for me
What could have possibly gone erroneous?
Why am I so stupid?
I should just go and slay myself.

I told myself things will be different this year
But apparently they are the same I fear
I just wish it hadn’t had to be you…

Why?
What do I possess?
I don't understand
But then again
Nothing makes sense to me…

Why am I so unlucky in love?
Have spent so long knowing
Knowing there is no hope
For the one that completes me
Not sure you would recognise me
If you were here

I watch, read and speak
I conjure up
The perfect you

Your voice
Your arms
How you will make me feel

You would think me pretty
Funny
Kind

We would be each others
Last phone call
And the first kiss

You will like me
For me

No lies
No games
No pretence


I am time's prisoner
Time that plays with my heart
But if you wish
I will try my hardest
To charm time
And have time

Let me love you
For now
I can promise nothing
Except an undying friendship
But the thought of you with another
Makes my heart ache
So there is hope
Forever there is hope
If you wish to waste your time
On a fool
Like me…

Yet I am wretched in love
And my ideals have disappeared
The you I created is not him
I am completed
Yet still broken
Will you recognise me
When I am there?

~~ Consistent curse ~~

I never knew being so imperfect could have its disadvantages,
Last time I checked people were still taking the most advantages,
I've come to realize that maybe it's not me but this place that surrounds me,

Bad luck seems to follow me wherever I may go,
They told me to not worry, "just go with the flow".
Life has already taken me past the road I wanted to travel,
Can I still change things? Is this possible to fathom?
It seems the things I want I can never have,
The things I don't want are always up for grabs,
Certainly I couldn't have been cursed with such servitude as this,
My mind numbs with the pain of again being one day without this certain blissful happiness,
Changing times: they neither feel nor hear any rhythm,
I wish I could be cured of this cursed loneliness,
I bid you farewell cursed wretched life, for you I no longer strive,
I'm happy with myself no matter what they may think or say,
It's me I have to deal with not the immutable force of "they".
Change me not, this place, this world can no longer do,
I may have changed, but I'm still unchangeable to "you".

~~ Being Old ~~

It's because you are so young,
You do not understand.

But I am old
As the jungle trees
That bloomed forever,
Old as the forgotten rivers
That flowed into the earth.

Surely I know what you do not know;
Joy of living,
Uselessness of things.
You are too young to understand yet.
Build another skyscraper
Of misdeeds and greeds
Touching the stars.
I sit with my back against my past
And watch skyscrapers tumble
And stars forget.
Solomon built a temple
And similarly, it must have fallen down.
It isn't here now.

Well, Love, I'll tell you:
Life for me wasn't a crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards tattered up,
And places with no carpet on the floor --
Cold and bare.
But all the time
I've been climbing on,
And reaching new lands,
And turning corners,
And sometimes getting in the dark
Where there has been no light of hope.
Only desperation.

So boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps
Cause you find it hard.
Don't you fall now…

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

Bring me all of your dreams,
Sweet dreamer,
Bring me all your
Heart melodies
That I may wrap them
In a blue cloud-cloth
Away from the too-rough fingers
Of the world.
I will be your dream keeper…

Darling, I know some things, being old,
Which you still do not understand...

~~ Being Lucky ~~

How wonderful it is to be 'lucky' for someone and when someone recognizes it. I know ultimately it is a mere coincidence. Hard work pays. Luck is just a word all of us use for a million reasons. But still, when success hits you and people are surrounding you to congratulate you, still, you keep the whole world on hold and come back to kiss me, look deep into my eyes and tell me - Girl, all this is because of you. You are my lucky charm.
Wow, I could melt there and then. Now that's my man, my baby, my love!

Kiss me and steal my heart,
Love me and don’t stop,
Keep looking into my eyes,
And you'll know,
You shine through me.

You, my baby,
Are the reason I live,
I dream and I smile.

You have given me so much,
When I expected it the least.
At the end of the day,
When you forget the whole world,
And lose yourself in my arms,
That’s when I thank the Lord the most.

You count on me.
I understand you.
You recognize it all.
What else can I ask for.

You are my dream honey,
And the best part is,
You are my reality.

Come and hug me,
Listen to my heartbeat,
Recite your name,
Second by second.

This is the truth,
And this is beautiful,
More than words could describe,
And wow! This is now,
And this is FOREVER!

WHY IS IT SO HARD TO SAY GOODBYE TO YESTERDAY…?

How do I say goodbye to what we had?
The good times that made us laugh
Outweigh the bad.

I thought we'd get to see forever
But forever's gone away
It's so hard to say goodbye to yesterday.

I don't know where this road
Is going to lead
All I know is where we've been
And what we've been through.

There's never a right time to say goodbye
But it’s difficult to realize that
We need to go
Our separate ways
Why is it so complex for me?
You said that you require doing it,
And it's killing me
Coz there's never a right time
Right time to say goodbye

I know my heart is breaking
And a thousand times I
Found myself asking, "Why? Why?"
Why did you take so long to say this?
But trust me, I never
Dreamt you would crush my world
And I never
Thought I would see the day we grew apart

And I just want to know
How do you let me go
When you just don't know
What's on the other side of the door
Through which you're walking out…??

If we get to see tomorrow
I hope it's worth all the wait
And it's so hard to say goodbye to yesterday.

And I'll take with me the memories
To be my sunshine after the rain
Coz, it’s so hard to say goodbye to yesterday.

~~ Between you and I ~~

Would you believe me if I said I was sorry
The question wasn't mean to hurt,
It was just my fear of losing you.
And now you're filling all the space that surrounds you
I'll soon be tucked away underneath your bed
Where you gave yourself to me.
Where I gave myself to you.

Maybe it's all for the best,
But I just don't see any good in this, no.
Maybe we'll find something better
But I know you will always hold the place

Maybe it was wrong of me to think I could keep you
And maybe it's the last few breaths
Taking before my death
It’s all I've been thinking

I want you to know that I am fine here without you
But I can't bring myself to lie to you.
And since we're being honest, I feel I should tell you
I've been filling up the empty space between you and I

Between you and I, she could never compare to you
Between you and I, I still keep your pictures underneath my bed
Where now she gives herself to you.
Where, still…. I give myself to you….

~~ Corner of my heart ~~

My mind is pregnant of all I’m not
My heart reminds me of what I forgot
I try to change my point of view
I try to change all over

And we all have disappointments
And we all got things to learn
And we're picking up the pieces
And we're picking up the memoirs

I think it's going to be alright
I think it's going to be ok
I can see the skies are slowly changing
I see light behind the rain

I really need to talk to you
I keep stepping on the vein
That keeps my lifeline flowing through
But I don’t feel perfect at all
Sad and insecure flaw

I find it hard to hold conversation
I get sweaty sick and I want to walk away
Its not you its strictly me in this situation
I’m wondering will it ever go away…

But sometimes I feel like weeping
Awake and when I’m sleeping
Perfecting how to put a game face on

This puzzle I’ve been keeping
Has been in hiding creeping out the closet door
Spilling out onto the floor

How long will I be picking up pieces?
How long will I be picking up my heart?

I’ll be as honest as I feel
I’m getting more paranoid and I’m hearing things
And they never turn out real
It feels like my heart is made of pure steel
It’s just so heavy all the time

No, I’m not scared of death
But I’m scared of living
I gave up on the past cause it’s unforgiving
I misplaced my trust

And for a moment I was lost
And in a moment I was found again
And we all need second chances
Coz we all will make mistakes

And I can make it better this time around
And nothings going to stop me or break me down
I know I’m getting closer I'm almost there
I know I'm picking up the pieces

I watched my word begin to rust
Now, I need a place for reliving
Coz….I am still walking on……all alone…

~~ FADED ~~

It's funny how one's memory becomes so selective with time. Why are some details so vivid in my memory, while others are merely a blur? I can remember what I was wearing; faded blue jeans, a red wool sweater and black slippers. I can still smell the distinctive aroma's filling my apartment; popcorn, coffee and strawberry scented candles. I can even tell you the song playing on my system, “Katra Katra from Ijaazat”. I also remember that the clothes in the dryer were white.

I can't, however, remember what day it was, or what time it was when I left. To be honest with you, I don't even remember exactly what he said to me. Slamming my apartment door, starting my car and driving for three hours are also not very clear to me. It is only when I touch the back of my head and feel the tender scar, do I even remember the accident. And unless I see the hospital records, I usually can't tell you much about the doctors and nurses who tended to me.

But the flowers, now those I remember. Red, white, yellows… every colour of the rainbow. Roses and tulips and carnations, the room was flowing with bouquets of all sorts. I remember how every time I woke up, I could look around my room and find a new arrangement. The fragrance of the flowers managed to mask the sickly hospital smell. At times, when the drugs were at full strength, I would forget about the wires, the monitors, and grave faces of the doctors and make believe that I was an enchanted princess. The flowers, gifts from my subjects and the doctors were my servants.

He was my prince. Every sweet word uttered from his mouth is etched in my memory like stone. Waking to him stroking my face and seeing his eyes glisten with tears, showed me how much he cared. Seeing his drawn face and blood shot eyes, I knew, he would prove to my family the same thing. My prince was constantly by my side. Protecting me was what he always claimed he wanted to do, I suppose this is what he was trying to accomplish.

When trying to remember my hospital stay, I can seldom recall a conversation with my parents or sister. The accident was before they completely stopped associating with me, so I wonder why they wouldn't have come to visit. I once asked him about it and he took my hand and simply said, "Those who love you, came to visit you and those who don't, you shouldn't waste your time thinking about." I didn't try to argue. That usually just causes unwanted problems. Why bother trying to change the mind of a person who cannot be changed? So, instead I decided not to bring them up anymore. Deep down I know they love me. We just can't see eye to eye on certain matters anymore.

I would still like to know why they didn't come see me. Or why Julie and Anne, my best friends, were absent too. It's at times like this that I take great comfort in my unreliable memory. Maybe, like the way I can't remember the colour of the car that hit me, I can't remember any of their visits.

I can vaguely remember a visit from my life long friend, Kathy. I remember her sitting down and looking as though she were in a rush. As she asked me how I felt, she kept looking behind her shoulder at the door. I wonder what she had to do that day. It must have been pretty important; because when we used to talk she would always pay full attention to me. I remember Kathy kissing me on my forehead and leaving quickly after he came into the room and told her that he wanted some time alone with me. He likes having me to himself.
About a year ago, I found a stack of cards from my family and some friends in his toolbox while I was looking for a hammer. There were two from each Julie and Anne. After I found the cards, I felt better. I wonder why he didn't give them to me. I guess he forgot about them. He doesn't have the greatest memory either. I know now that they at least cared a little. It would have been pretty sad if none of my family or friends had even sent a card. The hospital is not really in the best location, so maybe it was the traffic that kept them away.

When I found the cards, I thought about calling those who had sent them. When he wasn't home one night, I even searched for my phone book. I couldn't find it. I seem to misplace a lot of stuff now. I wasn't always so disorganized. Before I moved in with him, I could find everything in my apartment. It must be the additional space. When I didn't find the phone book, I decided that I might call my parents. I didn't though, because I wasn't really sure what to say. I couldn't bring up the cards, because that was too far in the past. They probably thought I received them while I was at the hospital, so I thought it would be better to let them think that that was true. He would be arriving soon anyway.

I still haven't called anyone who gave me the cards. At times I feel compelled to ask him about them. I tried once to ask him about who actually called, or sent anything to me. He got pretty upset, and so I dropped it. I think he thought that I felt as though he did not do enough. Of course I assured him that I fully appreciated all he did for me. He told me that if I really meant that, then I would stop asking about others during my stay at the hospital.

My family stopped calling me just a few weeks after I was released from the hospital. I guess I can't blame them. Him and I are usually too busy to talk to them anyways. We don't use the phone much anymore. When it does ring, sometimes it sounds so foreign to me that I forget what the sound represents. That's just another way my memory tends to fails me. I forget simple details that at one time had significance.

Julie and Anne haven't called in years. I hope they aren't mad that I didn't call and thank them for the cards. I'm sure they'd understand if I told them the circumstances, but something always keeps me from calling. Maybe it's better this way.

Every once in a while I remember something new. Like recently I remembered something else about Kathy's visit. I remembered her coming in with a small box. She placed it on my nightstand, but when I woke up it was gone. At first I was sure that the box was real, but then I started to doubt my memory again. Now I think I could have confused some facts, because I remember him giving me the gold cross I wear around my neck that same day. It was in a small box just like the one I thought was in Kathy's hand.

I love that cross. I feel safer when I wear it. To me, it symbolizes all the good that he possesses. It reminds me of how much he cares for me. The cross shows me how much I need him. What would my life be without him? I don't speak to my family, and I hardly have any friends. He is all that to me. He often reminds me of that.

He is my family. He is my friend. He is my prince. Or…who else is he….???

~~ Insight ~~

When I sleep at night I think of you,

Wondering if you think of me too.

When I’m dreaming I dream of you,

I dream of how good it is to be with you.

I see your eyes, your lips, your cheeks.

Your eyes so beautiful and lips so sweet.

The things I miss when I'm not with you

Is the way we kiss and how we cuddle too.

I hope you see what this poem means,

Remember this is what you mean to me.

~~ You make me complete ~~

I still feel the warmth
Of your body on mine
When I am with you
I feel this unbreakable bind
Your wonderful eyes
No matter what point
Of the day I still miss
Your everlasting love
And your gentle kiss
Anything I think of
Reminds me of you

How you’ll love me forever
And always be true
I want to kiss you
And to make you smile
I want for you to be happy
And to cuddle a while
I want you to hold me
And to cradle me with care
To tell me you love me
And you’ll always be there…

I don’t only want you
I need you so much
I need to feel
Your gentle touch
You make me smile
When I’m sad
You help me through
All the bad
You’re my other half
You complete my soul
You are my life
And you make me whole!

You make me feel special,
You make me feel new,
You make me feel loved,
With everything you do.

You hold me close when I am sad.
You wipe the tears from my face.
Every time we are together,
It seems like the perfect place.

My eyes light up when you enter a room.
I smile when we are together.
No matter how bad things are,
You always make them better.

I love the way you kiss me,
The way you hold me tight.
I love the way you touch me,
I could be with you all night.

I love the way you can make me laugh
For absolutely no reason at all.
I love how no matter what I do,
You will be there to catch me when I fall.
You make me happy

You make the wind seem so silent

You make me feel complete.

You make everything feel so great....


I just want you to know,
That even though we sometimes fight,
I will always love you!
No matter what...day or night.

~~ For the first time ~~

For the first time in my life I'm starting to feel good inside. I met this guy. He's helping me to say good-bye to all the pain I'm kept inside. What he does to me, I can't explain. When he holds me tight, he makes everything alright.

I can hear him whisper in my ear, "It's okay, have no fear, I'm right here. I'll never leave, I'll stay by your side. Tell me your secrets, let it all go."

I'm starting to see that my life's okay. Everything's gonna be just fine as long as I don't run and hide. He's helping me to find answers to questions I've had for so long.

Finally! I'm happy. What once seemed so distant now sits in the palm of my hand. I've thrown my pain into the trash. I'm flying high on my angel's wings.

Ohhh.....how I wish all this were not just a dream........!!!

~~ THE LONGING ~~

I never walked at night
But once.
The moon full.
The sea leaped crazy.

As if from some hourglass this beach
Slipped past last night, the wind
Returning empty, its sand
Laying motionless among the hours, one
More joyous than another, one more caring
One flying between these gulls
And even you are lonely

Walk between the first snowfall –the air
Must sense the sea it once was
–at the slightest calm
Will change into clouds, into your sleep
–for hours into the slow dark
The way some movie will begin again
And the actors lean over to kiss
Almost falling from the screen -one hour

Always whiter than another, one weaker
One on fire and you let the sand
Flow over your fingers
As if once there were l2
Or 24 or someone you love
Falling like water to measure the Earth
The silence and into your lips the hours.

To relive the moment, hold on to this time
High and steady in your mind,
Diamond hard and
Patient as that palm.

~~ SNOW ~~

Let us speak of love and weather
Subtracting nothing.
Let us put your mother and my father
Your father and my mother,
Away for a while.

Let us watch
From our bedroom window how a slow
Falling snow crowns
All nakedness in ermine.
Do not look at me yet. My face is flushed,
Your eyes too love-soaked, too hazel.
Outside is white on black
And still…..
The sky, deaf with stillness.

Don’t let it frighten you.
Hush. There’s time enough for that.
Be content for now to watch the maples
Fill with snow, how they spread themselves,
Each naked limb making itself accessible.

I loved you then in the old way of longing.
Another winter trying to duplicate ours.
Do you still long for me? The rest all is gibberish.

I recognize or recall—the old hollows,

the way our flesh must have waked and curved to each other,

how sinews of your shoulder were attached to carve out

the place I lay my head.

This is about....

what happens to what you can’t remember

because the mind’s job is to save your life—

cauterizing, cutting it out.

What’s gone is forced to wander

the brain looking for the warm spot,

the open-arms, embrace where it used to live.

Dropping echoes like desperate pebbles in

their wake, having nothing but a voiceless

tongue of dried leather, all frenzy and wag.

All given to sadness amid great stirrings,

for you were rocked to sleep in the knowledge

of loss and saw in the reflection outside your window,

beyond the bars of your reach,

your own face beckoning from the burning promise that
Little by little disappeared.

What can I give you

for your birthday this year,

you who are the match and the flaming jewel,

whose birthright consumes itself

in the face of your desire?

If you were here with me now

walking down this day’s death,

I would try to show you two things:
How the last light plays itself out over the horizon,

over the wild cherry heavy with fruit,

as if comfort lay in what it had made.
And how that black bird

with flame at his shoulders

teeters for balance on a swaying weed.

~~ Rotten Apples ~~

It is only wise to be with people you love
To share in, part of your life, it pleases the soul,
It will please the soul more staying close to them,
For the soul wishes it is long and longs for it.

I have perceived this to be true, true enough,
To be surrounded by breathing and laughing flesh
That holds me as enough, to be who I am.
Yet so often we choice less, and less we get.

There is nothing greater than touch, and the soft call
Of someone’s name. I've known so many curved necks
Folks, who listen and hope, pause and joke, freely
Bring depression onto others with their gutters.

It is the knees, the joints that convey curiously
And make a man or woman stay, with a rotten
Apple, as if it was duty-thus passes the days,
And more and more days, until you're dead.

The body knows when it has had enough, enough
Corruptness, defilement; it expresses the accounts,
On the face, in the heart, in the limbs, hips and wrists,
In the walk, in the knees, it bends one like string.

It's all in the rotten apples, I hope you know, the rotten
Apples you chose to be with, love, live, grow, and endure.
You see, quality does not strike even through the sweet talk,
The string, it gives the souls of another perfect harmony-

It just doesn't render to them, their wills, for long; if one does
It is her or she, whom become the sick ones, the beguile
Like a thesaurus digested- words vomited on paper.

Slimy, smelly, slippery unassimilated and meaningless.

~~ HEY..! DON'T I KNOW YOU? ~~

As a married adult I've lived and raised our children in six different states. I've made moving arrangements and unpacked more times than I care to remember. The hardest part about moving isn't the physical move; it's leaving the familiar behind. Not only do you have to learn your way around in a strange city, but once you find your way there, you realize that you exist in total anonymity. For some reason, I need proof of my existence, and unless someone recognizes me, how will I know I do? I cried for Sandra Bullock in “The Net” when some crazy computer hacker erased her identity.

The good news about being a stranger in town is that you can go to the grocery store without makeup or fear of running into your boss. The bad news is that you continue to search for friends even when it's logically impossible for them to be there. I'll never forget the day I made a total fool of myself in a mall at festive time. I was pushing my way through the crowds when my heart started to pound. Just ahead of me, or so I thought, was an old friend from high school.

"Hey, Supriya," I hollered and waved, trying to get her attention. Thank goodness my daughter wasn't with me or she would have called me a dork and told me how embarrassed she was to be seen with me.

Supriya apparently didn't hear or see me because she just kept walking. I pushed through the crowd, mumbling excitedly about the odds of running into Supriya here in Delhiwhen we went to high school in St.Patrick’s, Dehradun. I hollered again, this time loud enough to be heard over the festive music.

"Yoo-hoo, Supriya. Wait up."

The woman continued to walk but I certainly got the attention of everyone around me! I continued to push through the crowd, but as soon as I caught up with her I wished I could shrink at will and crawl out of the mall unnoticed.

"Am I the person you've been chasing through the mall?" she asked with an irritated look on her face.

It was definitely not Supriya. "I am so sorry," I apologized. "I thought I knew you."

I ducked instinctively as she started to swing her shopping bag in my direction, but apparently she hadn't been aiming at me. She was just making a quick left turn and didn't feel the need to tell me I was in her way.

Like grey hair, this state of confusion has been earned. Unlike June Cleaver, I have not lived in the same small town all my life. I have a huge database of friends in my mind. Apparently some small parts of our personalities or looks are fairly generic and God likes them enough that he keeps giving them to other people. In some ways it's very comforting. When you meet a new person who reminds you of someone you already know, you feel like you have a touch of familiarity even if you don't. It's much easier than starting with a blank page.

In Delhi, I ride the Metro and like to watch people as they get on the bus. One day after just moving here I saw a career woman in a very tailored suit with hair that had definitely been styled in a chair. A daily blast of hair spray must have kept it in place between visits to the hairdresser. I'm sure the colour was a creation of someone other than Mother Nature, too. This commuter was very prim and proper, with a neatly packed briefcase in one hand and purse in the other. She reminded me of the organist at church in Austin Town, Bangalore, right down to the glasses hanging on her chest from a pearl and gold plated chain. I suppose there's nothing too strange about that, except that almost every morning a tall, dark-haired man got on the bus who reminded me of the organist’s husband. They didn't get on the bus together or even acknowledge that they knew each other, but I watched one morning to see if they approached the bus from the same direction. If they did know each other, they were very good at protecting their secret. I wondered if they had any idea that in another city there were clones of their bodies living as man and wife. I was fascinated with the possibilities.

In Bangalore I worked with a young woman named Mary who was the marketing director for a commercial real estate company. Mary was a petite young woman with sparkling eyes and a bubbly personality. She was trying to start a family, but in the meantime she was building a wardrobe that Paris Hilton would be proud to own. She had a wonderful sense of style that included lots of trousers and short jackets to show off her shape. Her clothes all had designer labels that were still intact and hadn't been mutilated on their way to the clearance rack. Mary's style was so predictable, I was sure I could have done her shopping for her. Now I'm in Delhi working in the marketing department with a young woman who could be Mary. Kim goes one step further and has a professional seamstress make her clothes! I know Mary would be impressed. If these two women had the opportunity to meet each other, they would become instant friends. It makes me wonder: Is this something they teach in marketing classes? Does this say that women in marketing are typically bubbly personalities who have great taste in clothes? Does this mean I have to have a marketing degree to get into a size 0 or 2? With that degree, will I automatically be drawn to designer racks?

I'm not the only one suffering from this syndrome I call look-alike confusion. My future son-in-law, Rohit, just recently met my other daughter and thought she had a remarkable resemblance to his brother's wife. Just imagine the confusion at family reunions when Rohit will have two sisters-in-law who look like sisters but are only related by marriage, if actually related at all! That presents a question: What is the relationship of two women if one is married to the brother of the man who is married to your sister?

My youngest daughter, Daisy, the one who is marrying Rohit, has often been told that she looks like Carrie Fisher. People tease her about the doughnuts on her ears in Star Wars. Personally, I don't see the similarity, but thought it was really weird when one day someone at work told me I looked like Debbie Reynolds! Apparently something in Debbie's gene pool has been infused into ours. Maybe I should check my family history to see if Debbie and I are distant cousins. With her connections, maybe she could get someone to read my unpublished novel. Maybe I could get the lead part in The Debbie Reynolds Story. I could be perky...for a price.

The story continues. Swayam, my husband, not to be confused with Debbie's ex-husband or Carrie's father, Swayam Chaudhury, has a friend named Jatin. Jatin has an uncanny resemblance to our son, Pratham. Both young men are in their late 20s, about 5'10", have dark brown hair and eyes, olive skin, and at the current time, both have goatees. One day I said to Jatin, "I'll bet if people saw you and Pratham together they would think you are brothers."

Jatin said, "No doubt about it. When Swayam and I are out playing golf, people always think I'm Pratham." Now I have never met Jatin's parents, but what are the chances that his father looks like Swayam Chaudhury?

Wouldn't you know the one time when I wasn't paying attention; the real McCoy was right in front of me! In a mall one Sunday a couple stood up and introduced themselves as having moved to Delhi from Chennai. Big deal…!!! I was sure I didn't know them. After all, Chennai is a big city. After lunch at mall, I bumped into them, and without even trying to make a connection, realized I had known them. We had gone to a trip together in Coorg and our oldest daughters knew each other. Now I know I can't totally discount the chance that a friend from Bundelkhand might cross my path in Delhi.

I saw a button on a woman in the fabric store the other day and it said, the face is familiar, but I can't remember who I am. It struck me as funny, probably because as I get older and recognize people I've never seen before, it seems entirely possible that one day I will forget myself. Or maybe I'll be in another city, see someone who looks like me, and be excited to see her again.

I came back home. I laid down on the cosy bed and rested my head on the head rest. The weaving relaxed me. Time would pass fast here; that reassured me. I forgave myself for my mistakes and fell asleep.