shaam ke baad phir sahar mehke

zehn-o-dil mere raat bhar mehke

There is a substance of existence clinging onto the skin no matter how many soaps have run all over it. Colours and textures stick to the palm until translated into froth, sud and liquid air. The crevices of thighs and armpits and knees buckled as one crouches on the grey tiled bathroom, a history of soap, detergent, mud and dirt in the grouts leading to disgust arising somewhere within, despite the act of cleanliness. The golden bulb, soft on skin, makes the damp face look beautiful, the harshness of dry skin and withering away of age reserved for the white tubelight and a mirror.

The bathroom is ugly, there is no lying. Everything seems to be a permanent deposit, no amount of acid and floor cleaner and scrubbing has led to the brownness and ashy fluoride deposits to wash away. A bathroom should be a place of comfort, a place of privacy. Back home, one bathroom, one small flat – it was the only place to cry, to stare at the naked self, to fantasise about things, to pretend you are drowning in the deep blue bucket. I remember the risk of smoking a cigarette with the window open, and almost getting caught, while frantically airing the bathroom out, turning the fans on, leaving all doors open. It was stupid, but it was better than the anxious nicotine hit that was witnessed by myself in the mirror. I have always enjoyed doing that – smoking in front of a mirror, preferably minimally dressed, or pretending to be a gangster whose love is long lost and he is only alive to avenge. What comes after you win? Nothing returns, there is still grief to go back home to, and you are now purposeless. No more waking up with the hotheaded revenge sitting on your chest like a monster. You either kill or get killed. Then you die every day, slowly. Some people believe that is a choice we make. We don’t. You are on the verge of death whether you like it or not.

Emily Dickinson wrote and went –

Death is potential to that Man

Who dies—and to his friend—

Beyond that—unconspicuous

To Anyone but God—

When Saleem Jafari passed away, his friend Jaun Eliya, spoke a few words for him, over and over. Any recording that I have come across is him crying, weeping, choking on his own words. The end is something like this –

तुझे नबूद की ग़ज़लें सुनाने वाला हूँ

मैं तेरे पास बहोत जल्द आने वाला हूँ

सलीम बहर ए फ़ना में उतर गया है तू

खुशी ये है मुझे बर्बाद कर गया है तू

It goes something like – I am about to join you, sing you melodies uninvented yet. Saleem you have taken a dive in the sea of death, and here I am, happy that you have left me ruinous.

cohen’s letter to marianne

It is easy to succumb to the smallness of life when you are sitting next to a bucket one third your size, pouring water over your body, letting it go in all tunnels that join ultimately in a black hole right above your stomach that refuses to close up. Some days, the hunger feels criminal almost, sometimes it sucks in everything and waits for the moment when it will be the Biggest Inconvenience to explode. I have cried in public places enough times this month to have a warning being sent out on SMS like the weather warning – WOMAN ON LOOSE. EASILY REDUCED TO TEARS. PLEASE STRAY FROM HER. DO NOT TALK. DO NOT ASK. MOVE MOVE MOVE TO A HIGHER PLANE.

I do not have a mirror in my house yet. There is a small pocket one, shoplifted, which I use for lipstick and to stare at the moles that are erupting on my face bit by bit. The complexion and the darkness surrounding my eyes kind of takes away from the grace and beauty these spots apparently have had for centuries in poetry, in music, in films, on the chin of somebody I love. I go to bed praying that the small mole above my lip gets darker, I think it will be a classic hit.

The bathroom serves its purpose, I tend to my weary body as much as I can, pour cold water all over me and jump out in the room, drying myself off under the fan as much as possible. There is a sandalwood oil that I use sometimes, and it works best when the skin is damp. My soap/bodywash too is sandalwood for now, so is my room freshener. I like to eat chandan that my mother keeps in her puja drawer. I like eating white Apsara chalk, and Dabur Red powder. I like the chalky, dusty texture inside my mouth, I like it when my mouth salivates at the prospect of these inedible delights. The teeth have an untapped potential. Bite, chew, open a beer bottle, suck on plastic, suck on metal, grind it until the fear of teeth falling out revisits you and jerks you awake from the waking nightmare of existing as a person with a job, and bills, and a family that is not perfect, and a looming fear regarding all things that are supposed to occur to you. Another SMS – WHATEVER IS GOING TO HAPPEN WILL HAPPEN. WHEREVER YOU ARE GOING WILL DISAPPEAR. NOTHING IS EVER THE SAME. ARE YOU?

The room is expansive, due to the lack of furniture. I like to keep my mattress crumb-less, and neat, so that I can sit in my naked glory and put on toner, moisturiser, sunscreen when I am feeling lucky, and my lip routine. Then I wiggle into my clothes, and lie down. I think I do everything with the prospect of getting to lie down after it. The body feels so much better when the spine is not working overtime, the thoughts feel much easier to swallow when I project them on my white ceiling and stare with glassy eyes. Death, come for me, I am bathed, sprayed, lotioned up. I have a soft small lamp that glows in the corner, you can take it if you want. Mitski wrote Last Words of a Shooting Star. I write three sentences in my journal and lie down.

For the past few days, I have been thinking of soap, and how to write a piece on it, with memories attached to each scent and colour. It is impossible to write because it has taken quite a solid shape within me and it helps keep me upright. Lying down is fun, but it is also akin to a lifestyle that I am trying to let go of. I am carrying the memory of Medimix, Santoor, Mysore Sandal, Dettol, Lifebuoy, and Rin within me. The ever-crashing waves are now frothier within me and from it I will churn out something that will let me sleep at night.

illustration circa 1820

Amrit Manthana (अमृतमन्थन) – Amrit means the elixir. “Churning for the Elixir”

No end to this. Bye.