Ramyanique

Here for the art

[moodymothsworld]

@ramyanique 💟

[ramyanique]

@moodymothsworld

[ramyanique]

Inktober day 7: Exhaustion

[ramyanique]

Arriving

You are on a journey.

Into the crimson sunset~

under skies bleeding pastel memories.

Your train hurtles through space and time~

In this mad race to reach, reach, reach.

And the electric cables overhead pass by~

Cackling megawatts of strong nothings into your ears.

You are not arriving. Yet.

But that is okay~

As long as you remember to look out of the window and marvel

At the Quantum sunbeams

Lighting

Up

The

Tracks.

[ramyanique]

Before Tomorrow

And here we are.

At the edge of time, at the end of the month, with beautiful days that have finally run out. In one corner of the universe, in a dreaming city with its sombre rains on old tram lines running along musty book shops through narrow winding lanes that remind you of yesterday.

We have walked these roads alone, lost and separated by timelines, searching for that face that escaped our memory every time we woke up, until these familiar streets led us to the same 2 point crossing, where you smiled at me through the soundtrack of the traffic and offered me your hand amidst the chaos of mundane lives ebbing around us.

We counted precious days like stars stretching across the Milky way. We waltzed through the old city lanes, wearing our hearts on our sleeves, and laughter in our eyes and fumbled for nervous fingers in the darkness of run down theatres. We spun dreams of passion and ambition with our thirst for life dripping down our chin, in old coffee houses that reeked of history and politics. We relived movie scenes and drowned in poetry as we loved and danced all night through the unsuspecting city dozing off quietly to the sight of young life and love, before sunrise.

So darling, here we are, holding hands, counting the last star in the sky. We are in a balancing act at the precipice between yesterday and uncountable tomorrows where I won't get to stare into those brooding eyes shining with life, as you talk passionately about your art, history, politics, universe... And everything.

So let's walk down this familiar street one last time, shall we? Your hand in mine, my eyes looking up to your face, always so alive but with that secret smile nestled between your lips, as you look ahead dreamily at uncertain tomorrows.

[ramyanique]

[ramyanique]

[ramyanique]

[ramyanique]

My eyes opened to a thunderclap and a flash of lightning across an overcast 5 am sky, visible through the folds of an old green curtain, in a room that smelt of late night conversations intermingled with sleep. It was the first shower of the year in a city that was growing on me so slowly that I could finally start calling it home. I could see the lightning dance across the walls, as my roommate murmured in her sleep and pulled the covers over her head. The petrichor wafted in through the fading darkness and stirred memories inside my sleep addled brain.

I drifted off to a familiar terrace atop an old house in South Kolkata, in the summer of 2008. It was a time when the city was gradually shedding its ancestral look, and modernizing itself. But my Dida’s house of 250 years stood unfazed on a street that saw new apartments being built with fancy names. Beside the house stood a huge mango tree, which gracefully leant against the said terrace. I would spend every weekend at my Dida’s place and during my weekly stay, the evenings would be spent on the terrace, lying under the shade of the tree, doing whatever I felt like.

It was the first day of my summer break. Having spent the whole day reading, I had fallen asleep on a sleepy hot summer afternoon, while licking on an orange ice candy bought from the man who passed by the neighbourhood everyday meticulously pushing a ‘Kwality Walls’ stall, shouting “Ice cream Ice cream” in his characteristic shrill voice. I woke up with orange juice smeared on my face and elbows, to the sound of Kalbaisakhi slamming the windows shut. I knew where I had to go.

I rushed up the stairs to the terrace, two at a time, happiness pumping through my blood, despite my Dida’s cries of dismay. I danced across the hot cement floor, barefeet, as the petrichor washed over me and the first drops of rain fell on my gleeful face. My vision was clouded by the dust hurtling through the air, as I leant across the railings trying to get a good look around me. I could barely see families gathering clothes from the clothesline in a frienzied panic and shutting windows in the neighbouring houses. People were sprinting across the street to take shelter in a nearby Mother Dairy Booth as the torrential downpour began.

The mango tree swayed elegantly in the storm and its boughs, filled with succulent green mangoes, swept across the terrace floor, leaving a trail of baby mangoes on the ground. My excitement knew no bounds as I scrambled across the terrace, collecting mangoes in my arms. They were everywhere, rolling around on the ground, hiding behind the water tank and slipping through the railings, landing in the courtyard of the neighbouring house. My Dida, who had followed me upstairs, started laughing as she was met by my shrieks of joy as I called out to her to join me.

My Dida has always had a zest for the little things in life. She took supreme pleasure in cooking for my grandfather and engaging her only grand daughter in little games. Pulao-Pomfret fish curry and hide and seek. Kosha Mangsho and an afternoon game of Ludo. Alu-dum and origami. At moments like these, you could see her inner child, that had been taught to shoulder responsibility from a young age, break free and enjoy the moments she did not have enough of as a child. Despite my grandfather’s calls of “Be careful, come down at once”, she joined me in my mango hunt, using her saree’s anchal as a net for gathering the dancing mangoes. It got more difficult to see as the sky started getting darker, but we were content in our own world- grandmother and granddaughter laughing uncontrollably running around in the rain.

We descended an hour later, shivering, completely drenched, but with radiant faces and an anchal full of mangoes. To our surprise, my grandfather, who was usually a strict person, helped us clean the sticky gum off the fruits with fresh water and sent us to dry ourselves with an amused expression after a failed attempt at chiding us.

I spent the evening, chewing on sour green mangoes with salt, looking at the water-logged street from the balcony as the street kids swam in the water and shouted at the cars passing by as the wheels sprayed water over them. Dida started preparing her tasty mango chutney with renewed spirit, listening to the conversations floating into the kitchen from the 7pm TV soap that my grandfather was watching. There would be Khichudi for dinner. I had seven new books to spend the summer with. My best friend was coming to play in the morning and Dida would be making Kulfi for us. Life was perfect.

It has been ten years since that stormy afternoon. My Dida’s house is now a cream coloured three-storey. The mango tree had to be uprooted to make way for the new residence. My grandfather is no more. My Dida is ten years older and has lost much of the spark in her. Maybe that is what grief does to a person when she loses someone she loves. I seldom get to see her now. But every time I do visit her, she hugs me tightly with the remnant of the twinkle in her eyes and proceeeds to cook my favourite dish, with my help now because she is not supposed to over exert herself. And at moments like these, when she would throw her head back with laughter as the curve of her smile nestled comfortably against the wrinkles around her mouth, while I recount tales of my now adult life, I can still catch a glimpse of that carefree woman who had run across the terrace with her granddaughter, in the rain, collecting mangoes.

[ramyanique]

[ramyanique]

I heard a summer song but the winter wouldn’t let me sing, I keep hearing this summer song by a pretty little starling. It sang of the joy that awaits you when this wintertime sadness is gone, It sang of open doors, April breeze and the home-made love that is borne, And of the tang of freshly plucked dreams dripping down your chin. This shall be my summer song when my winter sheds its skin.

[ramyanique]

Give me a bottle of shooting stars and the brilliance of the night, And a violet paper boat drifting through a sea of light, If I had a bottle of life’s simple pleasures, I could be drunk on life.

[ramyanique]

That is how I like my third eye. Trippy and beautiful.

[ramyanique]

MAD’OUK

There was a feeling inside me. Growing.

A nebulous energy.

Perched onto my skeleton.

Made of first passionate love unfolding at a cold January 2 a.m.

Mingled with smoke and the smell of his collarbones against my skin.

And the premonition of departure the next morning.

I could almost dip my palms inside me and cup the energy against my breast.

And I could make it feel.

The dew on my neck.

The red in my hair.

The warm embers of the dying orange fire.

Casting a mellow on the couple beside me.

Lost in trembling hands and curious lips.

And the fire raging in my heart, burning me inside out.

Leaving burnt marks of old love stamped along my ventricles.

And I could make it see.

The shadows of the clouds across the pine.

The red in the brilliance of the Eclipse.

The ocean of lights dancing across the Milky Way.

As the peaks faded away into the distant sublime darkness.

And I could make it listen.

To the steady rhythm of my heartbeat,

Against the melodious murmur of the river,

As the current hit against the stones

And erupted away into bubbling laughter.

To the silent whispers from dimly lit tents,

And the uncertain notes of a flute floating into the valley.

And IT clung on to my ribs,

Trembling in sad ecstacy,

Imagining what it would be like,

To walk into this beautiful life,

With its clever paradoxes.

To curl its hand around a finger,

To dance amidst the petrichor after summer rain,

To stare into the horizon with hungry eyes,

And the passion of a new dream tugging at its heartstrings,

To love unapologetically,

To be broken into a million fragments,

And to love again, with reckless abandon,

And be burnt again,

Yet LOVE AGAIN, pouring out sincerity and depth of soul from its vessel down to the last drop,

To be so beaten by life’s ironies,

That it would have to strangle an exuberant force like itself,

With its own hands,

The next day!

[ramyanique]

HIRAETH

YOU HAVE BEEN THROWN OUT OF HOME.

You stand teary-eyed,

Baggage on your shoulder.

And a brain full of memories

As your heart gets colder,

Your bony arms, which once held warmth and love,

Rattle against the door,

Break off at the hinges.

And fall to the floor.

You look at your feet.

And see the broken pieces of your spirit.

Fragments of self-doubt and the future you once saw

Strewn around you. Like debris after a hurricane.

You sit down amidst the mess.

And wait some more.

Darling, it is never going to let you in.

It is not a question of if you were deserving.

Because everyone deserves a home.

And yours threw you out.

So what do you do?

You get up, shake the debris off your skin, and get a paintbrush.

Sweep the colourless mess onto a pallette.

Collect your pieces and make a garland out of them.

Bother not about the shards you cannot find.

You probably left them behind.

So you take your baggage and leave.

Like a tramp.

Sleeping under boughs of memories by night,

With foreign dreams under half-shut eyelids.

By day you walk through graveyards and burnt cities.

Reading forgotten epitaphs,

Listening to the silent screams borne by the wind

From desolate houses.

You don't want to live in the makeshift shelters beckoning to you,

With their torn tarpaulins,

Leaky roofs,

And a mosaic of tin cans on the floor collecting rain puddles.

So you keep walking through the winter snow,

Under the starlight.

With unknown constellations reflecting in your eyes.

With every step, you see the vast expanse of the universe.

Unravelling before you.

DON'T YOU KNOW?

You are made of such amazing love and turmoil

And of the cosmic stardust left behind after an asteroid collision.

And there was a warp in space and time to create you.

Keep walking.

You are coming home.

~To yourself!

[ramyanique]

DEBORITA

“Hello?  May I speak to Deborita?” A silent pause at the other end of the line. Momentary hesitation, disturbing anxiety As furtive glances are exchanged. “Well, she…” an incoherent stammer, As more anxious looks are exchanged, presumably! Sensing the tension, I elucidated: “She has something which belongs to me. I need that for school tomorrow.” Skipping heartbeats, muffled voices, the receiver exchanging hands. A cautious yet wild voice: “You’ll get it back soon, I’m sure.” Irritation surfacing, “When? Tomorrow at school?” Fully aware of her absence in class the next day. Frantic breathing into the mouthpiece. Exasperation pressing down on me, With an edge to my voice: “When is she ‘visiting’  school again?” Her long absenteeism, her silent wordless glances, her solitude, Intrigued me. Probably I  sounded rude. The disconnected line beeping into my ear. Conveyance of  the sensitivity of the subject. Will a different angle of approach be useful? Redial button: redialing  Deborita’s number, My mind delving into its own realm of thoughts As the monotonous rings pierce the sober silent sanity of my mind. All I desire is to break into the impenetrable cocoon Which she has veiled herself in. But all those friendly gestures, smiles of camaraderie, and reassurances of friendship, Met by a cold, incomprehensible gaze. The praises, indulgence in her work and futile attempts at socializing Met by the same searching gaze, seeing yet unseeing. The tedious frantic rings fading away into a more regular tone of disconnection. The forlorn mysterious eyes fill my vision Even though my fingers work on the buttons. What do they convey? Her eyes? Do they warn me of her inner monster Or dreams unfulfilled, hopes shattered? Do her brooding yet impassive eyes try to imprint on my mind The excruciating pain of loneliness and heartbreak, Of lost and forgotten friendship? Her ever dilated pupils  and her adroit alert frame Perhaps speak of unspoken, uncontrollable insanity Which haunts her like a psychological shadow, Always drawing to her attention, The fingers pointed at her, The eyes mocking at her, The contour the lips of people are assuming as words spill from them. All directed at her? Indecipherable expression of one Who is silently suffering, Endurance of parental friction Or toleration of torture?What jeopardizes your normal girlhood, Deborita? What deprives you of the common simple pleasures and sorrows of adolescence Which every girl, you and I, are entitled to? Line of  thought interrupted by the beeping a second time. Uncertain fingers hovering over the buttons As eyes stare fixedly at the ceiling. If you only allowed me into your mind, Deborita To explore your silence and solitude, If you’d made easy acceptance of my friendship, despite your reluctance, You wouldn’t have found  in me an unworthy friend. Exhalation of  defeat, As the mechanical voice at the other end Informs me of my error Of having typed a wrong non-existent number…