A dear friend told me this: If we cut you up, Shalini, I am pretty sure we'd find words pouring out, instead of blood." It got me thinking- I am full of stories.
A story for my name. For eloping. For coffee making. For the outfit i am wearing. For my studies. For the kids' names. For me and G. For Radhika the cow. For Bartimeus the jelly fish. For how I met a friend. Stories. Stories!
And just how beautiful it would be if you sliced me open and words poured out instead of blood. Strong black words. With serif. In bold. All the wonderfully strong things I feel and have done. Pale, italicized words for what I think quietly. Wishy-washy feelings. Sans serif, times new roman size 12 for all the legal and scientific words I think and speak. Washed out, splotchy words for where tears have been shed one too many times. Colourful, pretty font words for the happier times.
Oh! Cut me open. Slice me up right now and listen words from Hamlet rise up and twirl. Watch Julius Caeser. Listen to snippets from Merchant of Venice and Romeo and Juliet. Hear Auden and Tagore. See Frost and Sarojini Naidu. Ghalib and Gulzar. Oh watch the lyrics from songs I sing all stored up inside me. Listen to the raagas and the French songs and the Spanish Gypsy kings and Portuguese Tribalistas. And Guns n' Roses.
Watch all the unwritten poems form coherent sentences and trickle out, well punctuated. Watch the blogs writing themselves, arranging the words in the order they must. Just like I would write them out.
Oh! stick a needle into me and draw blood for transfusion. And watch the red colored vowels and consonants in Hindi and English enter into you, should you need blood. And maybe we can bypass the whole letter writing bit and you automatically know what I want to tell you.
Oh! stick a needle into me for testing my blood type and checking me for ailments. You shall see that I miss punctuation marks sometimes. Sometimes the angst levels are rather high. Sometimes the acidity and acerbicity levels are sky high. But never sweetness. The insulin in my body is well regulated and the words are never sweet. My words have a low viscosity and hence clot with a fair amount of difficulty. I must watch for that.
Oh! watch me when I am hurt and the blood flows freely from the wounds. I have seen people walk away from the wounds that they inflicted and not bother to help me dress it up. The words just gushed out from the wounds and I had to figure out how to stanch them. Myself.
And some words would be like inscribing in citric acid and holding a flame beneath it. Secret words that need to be set on fire to read it. And then they perish in a heap of ashes. Neither writer nor reader has any proof that the words existed. Except me. I hurt while writing them.
They were, after all in my veins.