On Poetry and its Criticism

He wore glasses and a neatly trimmed moustache,
With slight hints of beard and carefully unkempt hair.
The sharp looks and a wisely maneuvered silence,
Kept the ladies on their toes.
I had been half in love with him, I'd say,
If not for his mind-numbing pedantry.
The midday sun shined brightly above us
As we sat down by the pool,
Accompanied by cocktails and cigarettes
Discussing politics and poetry.
The extensive discourse on Communism and its failure
Was soon to be followed by some sweaty, sticky parking lot sex
In the impatient back seat of a car.
It was predetermined; a necessary rite of passage.


I distinctly remember discussing the Romantics.
We agreed that Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Was one of the greatest poets that ever lived,
Raised our glasses to the fact that we both hated Wordsworth.
He expressed great dismay at the decadence of contemporary poetry
And read a few of his own poems at my insistence
And an excerpt from the paper that he was going to read
At the university seminar.
Expressing a keen interest in my poems
His eyes sparkled when he warned me
That he was the ruthless critic.
My candour surprised me 
As I read out to him. Aloud. 
My poetry gained audience for the very first time,
Unfettered, from the dark dungeon of a diary.
It was the blissful ecstasy of holding the firstborn
After several agonizing hours of throe
With a note of caution!


He listened with unmitigated attention
Turning only once to light a cigarette. 
Bestowed with an expressionless face 
And a pair of uncommonly large eyes
He never betrayed a hint of any emotion.
Puffing his cigarette casually, he complimented me
On my confident use of metaphors.
And then checked his watch once
And apologised for having to leave me early.
I looked as far as I could, to see his figure disappear.
The fire spewing sun seemed to burn him as he walked.
The sex was deferred till our next encounter.
Poetry was never discussed again.

Reflection

"We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown."

Her brown eyes, kohl laden, motionless, stared back into their own reflection, as still as the glass of the mirror, stained with watermarks. It was the blank look of a dead fish. The kind of look that she saw in the eyes of the girl in the washroom. The girl's foot was bleeding profusely after dancing for 3 insane hours in 6 inches of heels, resembling  a deathtrap. But she didn't seem to care much, or was, perhaps too stoned to feel the pain. Her eyes were glued into the mirror, her soul trapped, by some magic spell, on the other side of the glass- the forbidden territory. Tik tok. The DJ was playing her favourite song, the potboiler of the year, she had to rush. She was running, past the pool, careful, the milk white couches, the slouched couples, the sloshed and the sober, the exquisite but brittle hookas and the fragrant candles. The dance floor looked foggy- dry ice! Dodging a candid elbow and an unfair tackle, she reached the bar. There stood Vishal, inebriated and incorrigible, wooing a barmaid. She looks kinda cute, 5'7", pretty actually, in her navy blue short skirt. Straight hair with the luster of satin. She hated her instantly. 

Raising his 5th 30 ml, stirring the ice cubes, Vishal danced in a peculiar fashion, smiling in her direction. His face looked different in the blue light. Alien. It was changing shapes, assuming the shape of Baba's face and then that of the mad woman who sits in front of the gate every morning. She was yelling at her, the mad woman, calling her names. Her throat felt dry. Where is water when you need it the most! There were plenty of abandoned glasses on the round tables, full of ice cubes and left over booze. Nauseated she looked back. The mad woman was still admonishing her. Her eyes were red. Wine red. Water!! Baby are you alright? Yeah I'm fine. But your foot is bleeding. Vishal was looking at her, visibly concerned. I'll be back in a jiffy. Toilet paper, where are you? She released her exhausted feet from the 6 inches of deathtraps. Maa had warned her, but hell, they looked sexy! There are things Maa would never understand and the number was increasing ominously. How could anyone possibly explain the importance of 31st night in a 21 year old's life! Was she too harsh with Maa? She looked in the mirror and pondered. Perhaps the last few words could be avoided. Tik tok. Her train of thought was interrupted. 

They walked past her with the grace of a mermaid. Cream smooth skin, wrapped in the velvet of red only till the thigh, rest left there, bare and white, to cherish and to covet. The scent of their skin could lull you to sleep. Sleep, placid and sound. No! she cant be oding. Nofrigginway! Placidity... serenity. Long slender legs capped in golden stilettos glided onto the bar counter. The mermaids were floating in the air, and she was floating with them. Peace. The tides, soft and moist, carried her, pushing her forth with an occasional jerk now and then. A ship was approaching through the fog, its light shining on the black opaque water like an ill omen. Her body was too numb to feel the ripples around her. No sensation felt she, but the deathly calm of the dark river. The ship was threateningly close now and the flash of its light blinded her vision. The mermaids smiled. She closed her eyes. Howrah Bridge! Tik tok. Enormous potbellies rocked to the tune drooling lustfully at the two nymphs swaying on top of the bar. Russian belly dancers. No! Ukrainian, somebody in the crowd said. Like it matters... waist 24, 5'8" at least.. Jackpot! Vishal's eyes glistened as he took another sip.

10...9...8 the countdown began. The world was extinguished and madness came to a temporary halt. A profound darkness descended onto her, entering her through her nostrils, ears. 7...6...5  The road was barely visible. Not even the street lights could penetrate the early morning fog. Only a thick white substance could be seen, tainted with yellow around the edges. Smog! It became thicker as the car pushed on, enveloping it with its viscous mass. The car tilted a little. Bump! She hit her head. Slowly for Christ's sake! A loud bang and a feeble whimper; the darkness consumed her. She looked at herself, pathetically trapped in a broken piece of the windscreen. The blank look of the dead fish. The mermaids smiled. The ship was coming for her. Vishal lay in a pool of blood. Red. Wine red. Tik tok. And there was light. Happy New Year shouted a restless generation in preternatural frenzy and diabolical joy as they flowed into another year, very intoxicated, discontented and equally messed up. 4...3...2 the countdown began.