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The Cat which lived in my Suitcase

A sinister looking cat; black Lived in my suitcase On odd winter nights. On even nights, I'd straighten My suitcase; a golden brown ; Heavy from the chips I had brought from home. The night after I found the cat Sleeping on my bed next to my head, I bolted the room And sealed it from him. How do I let a cat steal my thoughts, Staring at me  from my bed, While I sleep? But on other odd winter nights I'd still forget to lock the room And the hostel cat Would sneak in for the heat Of my suitcase. The next day I decided To prepare my dead suitcase Into a living room for this cat Which must have had mutliple names In the history of her hostel life. I removed the packets of chips And the few unwashed clothes inside. For want of old clothes for comfort, I placed the soft posters and The slogan printed fabric I had collected from the protests Around the city, on one side And a few newspapers, On the other. The cat sneaked in one odd night, And
I have an unwritten letter kept safely inside my book, with the violet flower I picked for you from my garden. Have I told you that I like the colour violet? Every night I dream of posting my letter to you with the flower, which would have wilted by the time it reaches you, like the grief of this wait. An occasional postman bringing a magazine whose subscription is a forgotten affair, only for these summer rains to drench it's glossy front cover, reminds me of you. The roads look like an unwanted carcass and the only sign of life is inside the heart. How do I put that life into a paper and send it across to you through channels that are long dead? The flower keeps wilting day by day and I let it be. The next time we meet, it would have dried up like flakes of brown paper. My violet would have vanished. Will you accept a wilted dead flower from me then? 

A Room

In one corner of this land, I've built a room; that smells interchangeably of coconut oil and white shampoo, of my sweaty palms and feet and of yardley powder packed in lavender coloured tins long lost. My room feels like ummumma's soft white muslin shawl, and her corner near the kitchen, the dark brown cot, a table fan, a trunk petti, shelves of unused glassware and a red carpet hanging from a steel rod near the ceiling, like a curtain never seen. It smells of the red sandstone walls towering over my head in beautiful patterns, intermittent with white marble, in the masjid whose name is love. Of my creaky bed pulled close to the window, half of its body under the shelf on the sidewall,  cramming under which numerous Dilli winters passed by; the pictures on the wall, the balcony that had turned a shade of dark brown, painted with dust and the occasional cat that lived inside my suitcase. It tastes of the rooms that changed cities, in desperate attempts to seize all of
On the other side of this sea, is soil. Thick, black soil, the colour of my oiled hair. I'll bury my stories in the soil across this tiring sea. The other day, she warned me against losing stories in the sea. Do you know of what happens to stories lost in the sea? Nobody knows. Maybe they'll end up in a fish's empty stomach into the nets they throw from their motor boats. Or if they're too light, they'll float and with the waves hit the shore ; and if they're too heavy and a little lucky, they'll manage to settle down. There are endless possibilities for stories lost in the sea. But I want my stories to be buried in the thick black soil, the colour of my oiled hair with the shards of paper that were once the letters you send me. Its hard to read them, now that the chai stains have erased some of that blue ink from your old Parker pen. But I still want them with my stories. I'll bury them deep and water them everyday. Maybe they'll grow, as you told
What is worse, the fear of being attacked or the guilt of being safe?  Numbness. It feels numb to live with a broken heart in a broken country that no longer cares. When just kilometres away, we are calculatedly butchered, classrooms of "liberatory education" still resound with lectures, tests, fests and talks with an eerie normalcy. Everybody laughs, jokes, eats, dances, travels and continues this monotonous cycle. From above the metro platforms in our area, the city behaves as if it's perfectly fine. And I don't know what is worse, the fear of being attacked or the guilt of being safe. The guilt of being able to at least temporarily laugh and eat food and erase the violence from my head, the guilt of being able to respond positively to frantic calls from my family who tells me not to go out anymore. The guilt of having a voice that is no longer able to speak. And I dont even know if this makes sense because I wanted to write this in polished poetic language. But I
എഴുതി മുഴുപ്പിക്കാനാകാത്ത കഥകളും കൊണ്ട് ഒരേ നടപ്പാണ്. ചിലതൊക്കെ എഴുതാതിരിക്കുന്നതാണ് നല്ലതത്രെ. മനസ്സിലെ വികാരങ്ങളെയെല്ലാം വാക്കുകളിലേക്ക് മാറ്റാൻ കഴിയില്ലല്ലോ. അല്ലെങ്കിലും ഏത് വാക്കുകളാണ് അവയൊക്കെ വിവരിക്കാൻ ഉപയോഗിക്കുക? മറന്നു പോകാതിരിക്കാൻ ഒക്കെ എഴുതി വെക്കണമെന്ന്  പറഞ്ഞു. എന്നാൽ എഴുതാതിരിക്കുന്നത് കൊണ്ടാവും ഇത്രയേറെ ഓർക്കുന്നത്. കണ്ണടച്ചു മനഃപൂർവം വീണ്ടും വീണ്ടും മനസ്സിൽ ചിത്രങ്ങൾ ഓടിക്കുകയാണ്. ഒന്നും വിട്ടുപോകാതിരിക്കാൻ സൂക്ഷിക്കുകയാണ് എന്നും. ചില ഓർമ്മകൾ എഴുതി വെച്ചു കഴിഞ്ഞാൽ നശിച്ചു പോകുമെന്നും പറഞ്ഞിരുന്നു. ഒരുകണക്കിന് ശരിയാണ്. മനസ്സിൽ കിടന്നു ഇങ്ങനെ പിടഞ്ഞും തിരിഞ്ഞും വികാരങ്ങൾ മാറിയും മറിഞ്ഞും ഒക്കെ വരുന്നത് പോലെയല്ലല്ലോ വാക്കുകളുടെ ചട്ടക്കൂടുകളിൽ അതിനെയൊക്കെ തറച്ചിട്ട് കഴിയുമ്പോൾ സംഭവിക്കുന്നത്. എങ്കിലും മുഴുപ്പിക്കാനാകാത്ത കഥകളൊക്കെ പൊടി തട്ടിയെടുക്കണമെന്ന ആഗ്രഹം ഉണ്ട്. എത്ര കാലമാണ് ഒക്കെ ഓർത്തു വയ്ക്കാൻ സാധിക്കുക? ഓർമ്മ നശിക്കുമ്പോൾ കഥകളൊക്കെ മറ്റാരുടെയെങ്കിലും ഓർമ്മകളിലേക്ക് കൈമാറണം. ഓർമ്മകളെ ജീർണിപ്പിൽ നിന്ന് കാക്കാതെ എങ്ങനെയാണ് പ്രണയിക്കുക? എങ്ങനെയാണ് പ്രതിരോധിക

(Hi)stories

No.We weren't taught to write words in their language, with the broken pens they gave us. Yet when we write, we write (hi)stories on their books with bloodied hands and wounded hearts;  in our words. And (hi)story that is, of existing, when like sawdust on old tables, they wipe us away. Of winter nights warmed up by women who write inquilab on roads, Of chai that tastes of the revolution, it's love, like blankets, comforting. Of children, inside packed school buses, learning to chant azadi , to the beat of the daflis on the road to Jamia. Of the crayons that colour their notebooks in hues of the revolution. Of women who write poems on their hijab And prostrate in worship, before yellow barricades. Of the paintings and poems that walked out of papers to the streets, in revolt. And the roads that became libraries telling our stories, when on fire, they set our books. Of guns that shivered at the sheer grace of  Shadabs walking to them, Of lathis that drop