It was a long time back
I envisaged my dad’s hair growing white like some other
wrinkled men
And worried how I could kiss his black mustache so
audaciously any longer
And told him never to let his hair grow grey/white.
There was a smile-
Then I was told that I am too small for such a melancholy
Such a thought
And that I would laugh at it
When I would be no more
SMALL- for melancholies.
You own something terrible-
An irksomely terrible tool
Of detecting my -f r a g m e n t e d- self-
It’s as if a part of me would buzz off
From the middle of something
And you would be there at the other side
Hearing me gasping, sweating, and gulping in my unhealed
sighs.
I think neither you fear/contempt it- this fragmentation-
Nor you felt it as an enigma.
There was only a leisurely slowness and softness
Sans wonder, sans angst.
But you have always tried to catch my eye
Into the black lush sympathetic eye of yours
Tenderly signifying
That I am starting to be “divided”.
There is grace in it,
A glary wise grace of necessity, appropriateness and inevitability.
A grace just like when you smiled
At my small melancholy over the possibility of a white
mustache.
I long to be too small for having melancholies
Too naïve for this conscious
fragmentations
So that I can lean on to you
Or cling on to your neck
Nagging you to heed my shouts of premonitions
Anticipations
Frustrations
Shouts out of my subjectivity-which splits and wavers and
shifts and pounds itself.
Shouts of my eerie vexations floating on my head.
So that there will be glassy emotions
Unmasked conspicuous brazen deformities
Unmodified words and unabashed guilt.
I long to cling on to you
So that I can pick up the left pieces of me here and there and
drag them into
-ONE-
So that I won’t search for my self
And say that “this isn’t me!”
And so that you won’t ask me someday
“Is this you?”
