Faiz,Fish and Feminism.

In no particular order,
like stream of consciousness writing,

like the endless afternoons and 2 AM silences,

Shared,as we sprawled ourselves,

under the ceiling fan

laid bare our most intimate ambiguities

 in the summer.

Played a poem on loop,

it rendered out a refrain that stuck with us,

it claimed to promise us a time in the future,

when we'll get to witness the

mountains of injustice that loom over us

blowing away with the wind like cotton wool.

I don't know how revolutions work,

but I've walked with fleecy cotton wool,

floating by my feet on a late summer evening,

lingering on the street,final attempts at shadowing

the seed from losing it's sheath.

I've seen dandelions losing their feathery tufts,

in the pattern that was printed on 

my sociology professor's cotton shirt,

like the plausible cover of a novel.

I realise that all those that are vulnerable 

are endangered because they're frail,but this very

vulnerability will become strength,

letting go of inhibitions,

even if it means letting go of the fleecy 

blanket they wear.

Her lapel has a tiny brooch,she wears a different one

everyday,today,it's a fish,mustard and red,

it's eye staring down at me,

like those fish filled with swirls of Madhubani strokes,

ubiquitous in folk art.

Is it a hilsa,a flying fish?
Is it koi,the fish that symbolize luck,
the ones my roomate yelped with excitement
at,the first fish she ever saw,
 realised the childhood dream she dreamt,
having grown up up in a desert.
Is it one of those tiny river fish,
I swam with in my father's hometown,
wild and free and slimy,they tickled my little feet.
Is it the kind of fish my sister grills

with basil,

its tender flesh dissolving on one's tongue

like a strip

of acid,

at least that's how they show it in the movies.

Look for love,

and you look for love,

but it's not where you're looking for it.

It's not about others

loving you,

or how much you deserve,

for that is just an age old way

of preserving

"who should be loved,how and how much",

pickled with salt,heirarchies and whatnot.
Often,in your confessional mode
you mete out poems
about love that is not a commodity,
about people that aren't commodified.

Saltwater fish swim in doodled seas,

sketched beside annotated texts,

clouds of cotton tumble past time,

what is sublime?

Second hand book collection

To know that a stranger's hands once leafed through the same pages,and smelled the same scent  of a new
heaven hidden in these pages of print.

To know that someone out there had their heartbeat stop to the same words,the same syllables that take your breath away,

Death doesn't exist for these tattered books,neither does oblivion,they will live in multiple memories for years to come,and create new ones,passed on from generation to generation.The same little details  and reading in between the lines will make another kid smile in the years to come.

Sure,they belonged to someone else once who now betrayed them,but it was a betrayal for the better,

because it only means they will get newly christened again,learn that love will find them,and someone will make them their own.At the same time,preserve their identities,creases and folds and different stages of yellow complexions accompanied by age.

Holding them,piled up tall,close to my chest..I have this feeling.It's indelible.Here I am,looking at disowned or half-owned books looking at me,here I am,invited back to the land of magic.I stand staring at half of my childhood..spent in these stores and those long afternoons sprawled over these books that gave me the endless want of these books.

Trying to justify this feeling is like trying to answer why some families are happier than others,or why the sky drapes itself in funny colours at dusk  some days.There might be answers,but the mystery is the most beautiful part.Keeping it alive is love.

Like old souls they charm lives,sometimes,with the previous owner's name and other details scrawled on the front page,sometimes even a date.Like wine and cheese,they are better consumed grey.

A gift from a stranger without their knowledge,almost miraculous.Have you ever found yourself talking to a stranger standing next to you,assuming they were your friend and wondering what that person's thoughts are like?

Ever wanted to see all the stars at once,or desire to know all the people of the world with their stories and craved to make an impression on someone you din't know? There is such dignity in meeting a stranger,such grace in discovering the impersonal comfort that strangers offer?

Trying to fit in an entirety into an instant and preserving a still frame of a universal feeling.

Always a fan of living in the yesterdays,my eyes fill up with joy at the sight of these books,stacked in shelves,stuffed in cardboard boxes or lining the streets in an array.

Selling second hand books is not just selling stories,

it's selling the souls of strangers,to strangers,

weaving an uncanny kind of unity.