Parapets

The white cement chipped off the edge,

Bird poop scattered parapet.

I had climbed out of my concrete,

A high rise of seventeen,

Vertigo.

Drop.

Dead.

Suicide.

Thats what others thought,

Every time I would sit for hours,

On the white chipped, pigeon poop

Parapet.

I sat there quietly,

As memories appeared,

Drenching my parched soul,

And blurring my glare.

It is here where I first felt the wind,

It is here where I first blew the rings,

It is here where I first touched your lips,

It is here when I first thought of sins.

It is here, where I first restrained,

When the edge lured me

To fly with the wind,

And enter a world,

Free from sorrows and pain.

It is here, when I first spoke to you,

Away from millions of miles,

Overlooking a muddy football field,

Where local stars played their sport, 

With heart and style.

It is here, where I saw the world moving,

With an unknown pace,

While I rested in disguise,

Amidst a rapid moving maze.

It is here, from where, 

She took her one last flight,

When her girl child was aborted,

After 210 torturous nights.

It is here, where he first intoxicated himself,

To give up on academics, and fly far away.

It is here, where our hands, 

Had shakily touched,

When he said the three magical words, 

Next to the melting wax. 

It is here, that I felt scared,

To go to the other side,

It is here, where freedom dwelled,

Away from over crowded rooms,

And bourgeois lifestyles.

It is here, where I first read, 

The iconic lines,

'Etu Brute'

As tears filled my eyes.

It is here, where I hummed Tagore,

As he caressed my hair,

Miles away through a magnetophone,

Over chat windows shared.

The parapet is no more,

As I visit back my dorm, 

Of 13 years and 23 days,

Of a boarding school in Kalimpong.

Expansion and renovation has made the school pay,

Crores of rupees to make false parapets every day.

The parapet is no more,

It has died a silent death,

Without vicious complaints,

Or any regrets.

I wish I am a parapet,

In love and in life,

A space for deep reflection,

Amongst crowds of infinite disguise.

Let me remain

In the recesses of the dark

When the tears flow down

And wet the cottons,

When expectations fail

When expressions are like vacuum,

When the blue neon twinkles

And reaches out for your hand,

When the cries remain wounded

And embedded in concrete and sand,

When hypocrisy feigns ego

And normals the disdained,

When all the sounds of night

Amalgamate to haunt,

But, I try to restrain.

When I dream of beauty

I want to dream about you

But you are like vacuum

No feelings, no regrets,

Only sanctity.

I try to feign reality,

You try to feign justice,

We try to feign,

Periods of drama and the silent practices.

It makes us puppets of society.

Can you cut me,

To expose my stuffed wet cotton?

The cotton, so purely woven

By the dwellers of the dark hills,

Before I rot into oblivion,

And the murmur of birds,

Prick my humid skin.

Will you cut me before

He caresses my carcasses,

And kisses me again

And feigns to the masses.

When the tears dry again

And when solitude feigns pain

When the noise fades away

And I wave to never turn again...

I find you again.

On the post it note

Stuck on the blue dusty table,

On the dirty grey backpack

Next to badges of beatles,

In a blue folder of visuals

On my desktop screen,

Inside my dark blue bag

And the half bottle of davidoff

That you gifted me last spring,

In the neon Moutain Dew

Collectors bottle,

Filled with d'leau et l'cool,

That I remember sipping

Among intoxicated masses.

As we continue to stare at screens

As we continue to fool other puppets

The sanctity reveals satan

In the active lives of masses.

Let me not find you again.

Let me be selfish.

Let me remain.