Phantasmagoria

Forgetting is allowed if you
wait till my mouth no longer
stings from your kisses.

Or my hair bristles from
your touch. And my eyes
no longer seek you.

Till the afternoon sun ceases
to slant through the trees.
Like on that spring day.

And memories warmed by
the sun no longer haunt
me on the streets.

Forgetting is allowed
for those whose hands
have already turned cold.

The City

She tells a million lies
and shares as many deceptions.
It is all rather clich�.
The cabbie spews politics
And the homeless, expletives.
A woman speaking Hindi
wants to know, if she should go home.
Go home, I tell her. It is dark outside.
Stand up, she orders.
She wants to know if my hips have
borne children I think she suspects
that my lips have borne lies and deception.

There has been an unstated tradition of having a post up on Valentine�s Day. Not because I care particularly for the day. (I do care for chocolate though. In case I have ardent fans out there who want to show me their luurve.) But this year I struggled to come up with something appropriate. Because really we more or less get the being in love part. It is the being out of love thing that always baffles us. None of us want to be the devastated ex. Even though I have made an entire blog revolve around that particular theme. I think a memo of sorts is essential. A to-do list, if you please. Because admit it, no matter how mutual the break up, there are times when you just want the other person to not rub it in so much that you are not together anymore.

Here is my work-in-progress list. Feel free to add your own.

1) If you expect to stay �friends�, remember that there is no such thing. You will always be the ex. Even if you were friends before you were together. That doesn�t mean you can�t be friendly. And civil and kind.

2) Just because we are being friendly and civil and kind doesn�t mean we want to get back to you. If we want to get back with you, we will tell you about it. You can choose then to not get back. We are big girls, we can take it in our stride. We will assume that you are still sulking however.

3) Remember that no matter how interesting the drama of making up and breaking up may be, ultimately it gets old. So quit already.

4) One thing that doesn�t get old is not being a jerk. Even if you were a jerk before we broke up, it�s time to quit. No more tantrums. No more sulking. No more whining. This is the chance for you to show us that you CAN be mature and rational. Even though we might not have seen any sign of it earlier.

5) That Fatal Attraction thing. Not so pretty.

6) Also not pretty is the ex turned stalker. Especially on Facebook. And please, no funny retorts to ALL our status messages.

7) Even though as the ex you are entitled to imagine us naked, you don�t have to bring it up. That can be your own little dirty secret. Really. We don�t want to know.

8) Be aware that there will be break-up sex. Not once. At least a few times. It�s called purging. Expect that at some point we will not want it any more. At that point we expect you to stop wanting it too.

9) When you start seeing other people, we don�t want a run-down of their fabulousness or what they like to do in bed. Name. Age. Sex. That should do. If she�s pretty we will assume, she is dumb. To avoid that situation, pick an ugly girl.

10) Even if we happen to like her, we will continue to assume that she is dumb. Don�t try to change our opinion on that. If you try, we will assume you got dumber after we left you.

I can�t tell Wednesday from Friday
But these days, it don�t matter much.
Since you�ve said you loved me
I can�t tell Wednesday from Friday
My head is dizzy, my life�s topsy turvy
Gawrsh, this must be love or some such.
I can�t tell Wednesday from Friday
But these days, it don�t matter much.

He�s already at the door when I emerge from the stairwell. Its still late morning but the corridor is dark and he smiles. But I can tell he is anxious. The maid hasn�t left as yet. He tells me this in a whispered voice. I don�t really care. I smile. I am happy to see him. His shirt is missing a button and yet he is looking like he always does, clean. I, on the other hand, always feel scruffy. But I have taken care to dress up well for this morning. He is leading me towards the chair by the window. There is some construction going on in the building next door. I pretend to be interested in that. All the while I am aware of him walking around the room in his slippers. They are hitting the back of his feet and making a noise. He goes into the kitchen to admonish the maid. He reemerges back into the room and asks me if I want something to eat. Or drink, maybe, he asks, when I say no. He doesn�t drink himself but he likes to watch me drink. I suspect he likes to see my eyes go cross-eyed when I drink too much. I want to tell him that I feel a little drunk already. But I am afraid that it will sound too corny and so I smile again to myself. He wants to know why I am smiling. He comes to sit across from me and reaches out to touch my thigh. I am smiling again. He takes a deep breath in. I don�t answer I am watching his mouth as he speaks. And then I look at his eyes and his jaw line. If it is possible to fall in love only with moments-- many, different moments � then this would be one such moment. The skies seem to open up as I watch him. I could be flying. I want to reach out and touch him. Run a finger along his jaw. But I resist. I am glad I do. Because each time I resist the urge to touch his smile I seem to fly a little higher. He stands up and waits a moment. The sun is in my eyes now and I look up at him and through the gap where the button is missing I can see his bare stomach. He smiles a very, very small smile. His eyes are dancing. I am sure mine are cross-eyed.

It is a game new lovers play
counting moles, explaining scars.
Indulging in a topographic survey,

This from birth, this from a prank.
Gravely narrated memoirs.
Like a soldier's insignia of rank.

Proudly basking in the ardent attention.
But when confronted with an extra toe
No cause for lament or apprehension.

Difficult to wear pointy shoes. That�s all we need to know.

The truth is I never really thought of you as �my type�.

But for one magical week it seemed like all the stars aligned.

And then just as quickly they crumbled to dust. Not once. Not twice. But over and over again. For a year.

I imagine often how it will be to run into you again. Because running into you is inevitable. I wonder if I should tell you that I finally sold the house. Or that I am thinking of moving to another country? I had read online that one must always sound cheerful and upbeat when you strike a conversation with an ex-boyfriend. We can both agree that you weren�t my boyfriend. So I don�t owe you cheer and optimism. But I certainly don�t want to appear like I am devastated. One must manage the right amount of happiness and hint only vaguely at the remorse.

I could tell you that I don�t think of you. But that would be too childish. I could tell you that I never think of our week together. That would be the truth, but unnecessary, don�t you think? I could ask about the new girl in your life. But that might seem like I care. And really I don�t. I don�t want to not ask about her because that might seem like I care. And really I don�t. See. This is why I have to strategize the inevitable running into you. I like being prepared for all possibilities.

And then today I see you at the caf�. You ask how I am and I tell you that everything is just grand. You raise a quizzical eyebrow. We laugh. I tell you how protocol requires me to sound cheerful and this is me sounding cheerful. You say something about things not really being over between us. I say flippantly that all my ex-boyfriends believe that. You say, you must be some special woman if no one wants to leave you. And then while you stare into your coffee you say softly that I am special. I don�t skip a beat, I say, you are SUCH a liar. You raise your hands up and say, guilty. We laugh again. You must remember me as such a jerk you say. I say no, I remember that we were lucky to get away when we did or we might have killed each other. We both look out of the window at the falling rain and laugh again while we agree. We then mumble something about a long day and rush out the door promising to call each other soon.

It is perverse consolation that he believes in protocol as well.

Happy New Year

Chirpy greeting: Check
Casual conversation: Check
Couple of self-deprecatory jokes: Check
Calling it quits (after a year of trying): Check. Check. Check.

In Desh.

One is devastated

After hearing Patrick Dempsey laugh.

Why man, why.

Now I just have to find someone else to tell all those jokes to.