Memories

I dreamed of you last night

The sky was hanging up its sordid cloak

Of raven cries

To revel in its naked, golden

Glory

I don't know why I dreamed of you

It's been several nights

Over several years

Ten, I think

Since I last saw your big, moody eyes

Stare back into mine

You asked me if

I missed us

I laughed and said at once

"Oh no, that was too long ago!"

But then I paused,

Let the words linger

And I realized

I did

I told you that some things

Were never the same since

I missed walking into the fading twilight

Hand in hand

Like we'd never let go

As we did, all those years ago

I missed that you knew me

In a way that no one else ever had, then

And the heady rush of

Youth

It's intoxicating promise of

Sunshine

Beyond every rainbow

I missed that too

And as I stood up to leave

I realized that everything was bathed in

A warm golden-yellow

Just like I remembered our evenings

When they were ours still

The wind was no more than

A gentle murmur

That ruffled your hair

And caressed my cheek

The air, fragrant

Time had slowed down

To let us savor every moment

Nostalgia washed over you and me

Bathed us in its bitter-sweet reassurance

That some memories could

Last forever

And I was grateful to have known

Someone like you

Who will always be a little part of me,

Deep inside,

Forever.

To us

Passion – raw, unbridled, subliminal, violent

Pure love, you proclaim

A fistful of smoldering hate smashes through

A crafted, crystal dream

Bitter-sweet nothings

Comparisons, some accusatory

Moral allusions, illusions, perhaps – the boundaries blur

Like naked fools we

Celebrate

Our twisted fates, intertwined

As some call it

Deepening despair, widening chasms

Hollow promises

Vacant stares – we do

Them all, with practiced rote

A fairytale ending

Perverse, but true, we sought

Pure love, we found

In fragmented memories

With strong, bold strokes

We paint over

The cracks, with their

Jagged, piercing edges

Silent screams, teary dust, tired prayers

The flame falters. 

Monster

It preys on your dreams,
crouching on artful haunches
until the world you inhabit is completely your own

A gentle murmur, a sidewards glance
and then a cloud of puffy, vicious smoke

You do not resist, at first
for the smoke smells sweet with hints of vengeance and traces of greed
You follow, unquestioning
You let it lead you down paths you never knew you could create
You pause a while, shake your head and try to reconsider

It turns around to face you
snarling its callused lips in a mirthless sneer
it mocks you, lures you, taunts you
to take just one last look.

It seeps into your eyes
tainting your soul with unfamiliar hues
You peer outwards, and then back within
and then pull back, shocked at what you think you see
But this time, you are drawn
Drawn to all that you thought could never be
You look anew at the nameless, shapeless silhouette
lurking at the very edges of your horizon
seeking words of reassurance
words of comfort, of solace, of concession

Like a trickle
That grows steadily stronger into a stream, and then a river
it floods your being with answers
Answers you've been grasping at all along
but were too afraid to own up to

The whisper turns into a roar
drowning out everything around you
with its wordless echoes
Muting who you used to be
with this stranger you have now become

You no longer know the person who looks back at you
from the mirror
Your words sound strange, brittle almost
to your own ears
Your touch feels different
At once faltering but harder

And you scream,
"What have you done to me?"

It doesn't answer
looks away instead

Louder this time, you demand,
"Stop this, this very instant!
I want to go back
I want to be me"

With its face grimaced in a terrifying smile
It whispers,
"I am you."

A New Year’s wish

As the old year rolls past and the new rings in,
It’s a time to reminisce, rub the slate clean and chalk out new horizons to conquer, new avenues to explore and new skies to reach out for.
But before I bundle up my memories of thick and thin and stow them away in a  finely-veiled corner of my mind, there are a few memories that I pluck out and tuck away, right beside my heart where I can watch over them forever.
Just like the many others that have stayed behind, etched themselves a niche none other can replace.
Special moments, special smiles, special laughter, special tears, special people…

And as the last few minutes of this weary old year slip away, I steal but a moment to whisper “Thank you” into the winds and watch it flutter away to where only you hear it.
It is these two words which embody the very essence of how this year has passed and glimmer with the hope of the endless days to come…
Times when I can look up to you for advice, gaze at the stars with you in newfound wonder, cock my head in a guilty bow,
Borrow a smile from your generous lips, hold your hands for innumerable first steps,
Ease away a frown from those powerful shoulders that never flinch, follow your path into a world yet un-chartered,
Lead you into my crystal heaven and watch you approve with a half-bemused smile.

The road winds on, but the journey still young remains – just like every dream we have dreamed, every song we have sung and every vow we have sworn.

And as the new dawn awakens, I look into the golden light and whisper words of gratitude, words of faith and words of togetherness… words that live on until many a lifetime have ceased to exist.

The man who changed my world

I stood at the crossroads…
The road stretched ahead of me,
Unending,
As far as the eye could see.

I stood alone, unafraid,
The foolish courage seemed to stem from within,
From the very fact that I was unperturbed,
No matter how wrong the path I chose was.
No, I couldn’t care less.
I shrugged defiantly…
Every new step, always the wrong foot.

And then I met him.

There he was,
Calm, serene and frightening.
Frightening not because he imposed,
But his eyes raised questions….
Questions I had shunned into the darkest recesses of my mind,
Questions that had been trampled upon by the decadent artifice around me….
Oh that artifice!
It had lured, tugged, drawn me into a whirlpool of never-ending despair,
All the while mocking me with a laugh,
A laugh so light and cheerful it chilled me to the bone.

I looked into those eyes again,
Closer, deeper and with a new sense of despair,
They smiled back at me,
Eyes which were now pools of liquid love,
Love that flooded my heart until I felt I would burst,
Such was my ecstasy.

My soul opened itself to him,
Revealing with naked honesty,
Its hideous scars, its ugly façade, its grotesque bitterness.

He drew me close to him,
And raised a mirror to me,
“This”, he said, “Is how I see you,
“This is what you are to me,
Beautiful.”

I peered into the mirror hesitantly,
Unsure at first and then enchanted,
It reflected faithfully,
Not what I was, but that which I was meant to be,
And my lips closed over a word half-said,
Beautiful.

Book review: Chef by Jaspreet Singh

Chef by Jaspreet Singh is a worthy successor to the author's award-winning collection of short stories Seventeen Tomatoes: Tales from Kashmir, and, like his previous work, this novel is based in Kashmir and describes the decades-old Indo-Pakistan conflict over what was once described as 'Paradise on Earth'.

While the Kashmir conflict is a common enough theme for most modern Indian authors, what truly sets this novel apart is Jaspreet Singh's heart-wrenching description of the lives that are trapped in this disputed territory, lives that have little to do with the political puppeteers that wield the strings of terror and the continual threat of war, and lives that, above all, yearn to be 'normal'.

The story is woven around the journey of its protagonist — an unassuming, although markedly disillusioned, man named Kirpal. Son of a war hero who breathed his last in the snowy glacial peaks of Kashmir, Kirpal (or Kip, as he is better known) joins the army to follow his father's illustrious legacy. Overshadowed by the looming aura of his father, which, to Kip, always seems on the brink of swallowing him whole, he is assigned to Kashmir as an assistant chef. And it is in Kashmir, surrounded by miles of icy white nothingness, that he truly comes to terms with his father's death, discovers facets about his father's life that he was hitherto carefully shielded from, and takes his first fumbling steps towards his lifelong bitter-sweet relationship with the valley.

Over the course of his painfully ordinary career, Kip is assigned to the kitchen of the famous General Kumar. He eventually takes over the reins from his mentor, Chef Kishen, and unwillingly, but inevitably, finds himself intertwined in the whirlwind of conflicts — in both his thoughts and actions — that rages over Kashmir.

Kip's story is just like the thousands of others who pledge their life to defending the war-torn state of Kashmir, and as do they, he eventually finds himself questioning the reasoning that underlies why this conflict exists at all. Through Kip's eyes, Mr Singh examines the many truths that never make it past the garrisoned fortress of the Indian army — be it the unethical torture of Pakistani POWs in Kashmiri hotels, the blinkered vision that the top brass of the Indian army sometimes knowingly choose to adopt, or even the unjustified harassment of innocent civilians at the behest of local authorities.

Over time, Kip finds his growing disillusionment with Kashmir evolving into bitter resentment as his heroes and his dreams are snatched away from him, one after the other. As fate would have it, Kip finds love with a suspected Pakistani terrorist – Irem – whom he eventually loses to charges of inappropriate conduct. After he leaves the valley, for what he presumes to be, for good, he is diagnosed with a brain tumor, which his finances do not allow him to treat. He finally returns to Kashmir after close to a decade of voluntary banishment, to cook up the “feast of his life” for the wedding of young Rubiya, daughter of General Kumar, with whom he has forged a silent, emotionally-charged, bond.

Jaspreet Singh's prose is dry, and at times, almost cold. While this may strike some readers as disconcerting, the style is reflective of the protagonist's inner state — a quiet detachment that allows him to mirror all that happens around him. Yet, as Kip traipses down memory lane, the author bursts into sudden spurts of evocative narrative that harken back to the strong emotions that Kip consciously buries deep within him — and it is these passages that remind the reader about the strong emotional ties that root Kip to the valley.

 What is perhaps, most striking about this book is its latent sensuality. Mr Singh relies strongly on vivid sensory images to describe the solace Kip finds in cooking, his fascination with the timeless beauty of Kashmir and his strong reactions to his charged surroundings. Although the book is relatively free of stereotyped war imagery, Mr Singh artfully crafts Kip's many conflicts into interesting layers that readers are invited to peel back, one at a time, as they foray deeper and deeper into Kip's (and the book's) soul.

Artful, subtle, intense and unpretentious – Chef is a quiet ode to a subject that its author evidently holds close to his heart, and succeeds in communicating this passion to its readers.