Hypergraphia

I long for Hypergraphia. I am tired of explaining my mood swings to others, and justifying it to myself. I am tired of everything. I am tired of reading. I am tired of drinking. I am tired of behaving normally. I am tired of being social. I am tired of remaining awake. I am tired of falling asleep.

The right knee is hurting again. That means I cannot run. Two nights ago, I was feeling terribly lonely. I sent smses to five people, asking them for a hug. One replied. The other replied the next day. One sent a blank sms back. And two didn’t reply at all. Hugs are premium, and people attach all kinds of meanings to them. Even hugs are not free. They are tagged, bound by cardinal rules of societal norms, used as a tool for barter by people. I don’t want them anymore.

Will be travelling tomorrow. Need to get out of this wretched city for few days. It is better to be among strangers in a stranger city. The people there don’t know you. They have no expectations. They will leave you alone. Even when there is a conversation, there will be no background to it.

I hate backgrounds, too.

I want to do this: flee to the mountains. Cook a nice meal. Lie down on a haystack in sunshine. Listen to Agha Shahid Ali reciting his poetry. Converse with the old postman. Put my head under a brook. Light a pipe. Play with mud.

Write feverishly, in long hand.

Hypergraphia.

For old time's sake

Theek hai - so be it
you said, promising to
buy me a pocket watch.
Opening its lid, I'll
watch seconds glide into
years; wait for Captain Time's
whistle, and then, I'll
caress your tresses

These days I play to
destiny's packed gallery,
watching it bend with laughter
at my antics. And in the solitude
of Begum Akhtar's voice
when your memory bedazzles my heart
like her nosepin, I cry silently

I remember you wore one too
years ago, when we met at
the house, close to the spot
where they had silenced Safdar Hashmi
I had thought that you'ld look like
your mother when you grow old

Please grow old with me
Don't travel alone in desolate
railway compartments, while
sun and shade roll dice after dice
I shall wait for Captain Time's whistle
and when I hear it, I'll sit beside you
and I'll caress your tresses

(In memory of Agha Shahid Ali)