A Recipe for a Broken Heart

Ingredients:

2 beating hearts, one warm, one cold

1 more cruel word

1 unspoken apology

2 weeks of waiting

10 days of bitterness

1 week of insecurity

1 day of longing

1 day of self-pity (could be substituted by complaints)

1 day of anger

1 day of recrimination (this can continue over the next two days)

1 day of indecision

1 day of hardened resolve

1 day of silence

Love and pride in equal measures

Method:

Keep the hearts side by side. Add love and pride in equal measures. (Keep adding love and pride after each stirring to keep the hearts fresh.) Add the cruel word and keep aside for 2 weeks of waiting. Keep the unspoken apology in mind. After 4 days, add the bitterness. Wait for another 3 days and add insecurity. Stir in the longing, self-pity, anger, recrimination, indecision, resolve and top it up with silence. Serve elegantly on a purple plate with the unspoken apology as a side dish.

Alternative methods:

For two broken hearts, replace the cold heart with another warm one. The rest of the method holds.

Use three hearts instead of two for more interesting results.

If you are using a single heart, replace the cruel words with distant dreams. This method does not guarantee as exquisite a broken heart as the previous methods, and there is a greater risk that the heart will heal.

Warning:

Make sure the apology does not mix with the rest of the ingredients before serving. Premature addition of apologies might – though not necessarily – ruin the recipe for a broken heart.

Healing can start at any point of time from weeks to years depending on the hearts used. Guarantee expires after one month.

Note: This method works for both male and female hearts in various combinations.

Tried and tested over centuries.

Two Haikus

1.

I –

Wing across clouds.

Red swing, green earth, whirling leaves.

You –

Song on my lips.

2.

I –

Wind in the rain.

Dirt-flecks, dead leaves, leaking roof.

You –

Flame in my heart.

How can I smear

How can I smear

The rippling-water, soaring-bird, boy-laughter colour

Of your eyes with the dark clouds

Of my smudged eyeliner?

You smoke your cigarette, I mine.

Thus I won’t smear

Your cool-glass lips

With my sweat-sticky strawberry lip-gloss.

Matchstick lit

Matchstick lit,

That night you leaned

Your head against hers

And inhaled.

His gaze on my cheek,

I dangled my feet

Above grey water

And exhaled.

You snip at the hem

Of our patchwork house

With your brutal blade

Of honesty.

I sweep up the dust

Of darkness and deceit

And flush it down the chute

Of my silence.

Neon Noir

When I walk in the neon-noir streets of my feline city, I never turn at the noises that dog my steps. I never turn because I don’t want to see them. I pretend not to hear them. They’re everywhere, and they think they can beat me. Creep upon me in an unguarded moment and quell me. They’ve been with me, after me, for as long as I can remember. I grew up with the fear of them enveloping me, and rode into adulthood with them riding pillion behind me. They were my many selves, my other selves, and I ruthlessly and relentlessly eluded their grasp. One slip, and they would overwhelm me, and I would never be myself again. Armoured by my watchfulness, I flitted through the city, never stopping, ever on the move, ever one step ahead of them.

And then one day I saw her, and my world stopped. Just for a second. And in that second, the dry dust and dead leaves and shreds of fairy wings caught up with me, and I was lost, lost forever. 

Men I fall for

I always fall for lean men, like Cassius. Men whose eyes shoot laser beams that slice through your heart. Men with no hatred or suspicion of the world, but who still stand apart with a light air of distrust. Tall men. Men who smoke. Men with wiry limbs and long, tapering fingers. Men with soft brown eyes and sudden smiles. No Greek Gods, no Schwarzeneggers, no Wild Hogs for me. I always fall for men who fade into the sunshine.

But I can never kiss them, and I can never love them, for I have pledged my heart to a familiar stranger whose warm cheek against my cheek and heartbeat against my breast take me, finally, home.  

a black smear of pain

a black smear of pain

drags across my universe

like the daubs of kajal

on her drawn face

as, rubbing the sleep

and sleeplessness

from her weary eyes,

she stands framed

in the sliver

of the open door. 

In Memory of VC Rock

Shoulder to shoulder,

we leaned back

against vodka-varnished evening skies.

Our songs flamed

in the last puffs

of cigarette butts,

our dreams soared

on a wisp of marijuana,

we staked our hearts

on the glittering shards

of broken beer bottles.

In the green distance,

a peacock screamed with laughter.

A hare streaked across

the motorcycle headlight,

a horde of wild boars waited

patiently

for the football team to pass

before they crossed the road.

In the green distance,

lovers’ bodies sculpted

moon-moistened rocks

high above the still water.

And on VC Rock,

our dreams danced around the bonfire,

words tripped merrily into poetry,

flashes of light into films.

Tonight, you stretch your legs

and lean back beneath the stars

While here, my cigarette smoke

breaks against the concrete walls,

the steel rods and cement sacks

obscuring the sky.

There is spirit here, and fire

dancing unquenched at the lips

and fingertips

of one petite girl

with stormclouds in her eyes.

There are voices here, and dreams

flickering in the cold night

and among the myriad hues of day.

There are fights without flags,

firebrands lined against citadels of ice,

and of course there are lives

and loves and songs,

but never, never the same

as the warmth of your hands in mine

and the sound of all our voices

raised aloft in tuneless song

beneath the vodka-varnished sky

on VC Rock. 

perfect happiness

perfect happiness

never lasts.

self-contained,

a bubble

of frothing mirth –

you follow it

with rainbows in your eyes,

balance it

on the tender tip

of your finger –

you cherish it

for the one long moment

before it bursts.

(what’s so precious

about plastic bubbles?)

in the dim alcove

of a small bookstore,

his lips brushed my cheek

and the years sloughed off my heart –

like a teenager

in the first spring of love,

I thrilled

in perfect happiness.