Manish Pathania | Author

Writer | Traveler | Artist

Mistakes in a perpetual loop



When I was younger,
and hopeful,
I fell madly in love with every girl,
Who was kind enough to talk to me,
And as it went,
And innocent,
But never reciprocated.

And after every time,
I went into this perpetual loop of misery,
That somehow ended up as a self-discovery,
Or art of sorts,
So much so,
That I needed to be in that misery,
To function,
To travel,
To discover,
To write,
Most importantly to be happily unhappy.

So, every time I met a woman,
Who was kind enough to love me,
To share her thoughts,
her body
Or happiness with me,
I leafed away,
As easily as the new spring,
As quickly as the summer rain,
After of course a brief period of bloom
As ephemeral as an orgasm;
I leafed away,
From the imminent happiness.
For how could I arrive at that point,
If my happiness was in perpetual pursuit?
How can I be,
If my identity is in being?
How can I stay,
If my destiny is in constant wandering?
I leafed away,
Until I found myself,
Hopelessly and helplessly,
Entangled in the braids of your dismay,
And this time I want to stay,
If you let me,
I swear,
this time I’ll stay.

Our nights


Our nights
under the starry skies,
drunk in love,
and I, 
in alcohol.

When we used to wander
in my rickety car,
after a bad day in life,
listening to Dylan
talk about love,
life, and freedom

You would often find a quiet spot,
mostly in front of a cigarette shop,
and we would park the car,
kill the engine,
roll down the windows,
and listen to the breeze harmonize
with the harmonica.

I never quite understood why
you would suddenly become so quiet,
and wave your fingers in the air,
in the ebb and flow of the melody,
and try to communicate something,
which I was too naive to understand.

I would just look at you,
glistening under a reticent yellow light
escaping somewhere from the darkness
to fall on your fair skin
while you release the white clouds,
from the captivity of your puckered lips,

and wonder
how easily you could conceal,
your inherent grace,
under the messy hair,
profane language
and bad hangovers.

And then you would catch me,
staring at you in awe,
and I would get intimidated,
by the unadulterated love
oozing out of your expectant eyes.

Our nights,
under the skies,
long gone,
intoxicated in love,
and I,
in regret.

The infinite conversations


We fell apart
as easily as we had met,
you left me
and never looked back
but I could never really let you go.
I cherished you
in the infinite conversations
that I had with you in my head.
I answered everything
you once asked me.
I confessed everything
I never could say to you.
And I planned everything
I would say to you
if you ever came back,
to apologize
or to find closure
or to mock me for my weakness…
I have seen
the stubborn little girl in you,
I have seen
the rebel adolescent in you,
I have seen
the obnoxious selfish lady in you,
so, I know that it would never happen,
but if it did
I don’t know which
half remembered conversation
or poem I would recite for you.
May be I would slander you,
or maybe I would say
that you never broke my heart
but I broke it for you
over and over again
or maybe I would just say
that it was a pleasure
every fucking time…

To Hank


Hank said,
don’t try,
and I had not been trying for more than 80 days now.

Hank said
it will come out gushing,
from your gut,
it hasn’t.

What is my next move?
Should I keep waiting for the lizard on the wall,
to come to me,
or should I get up,
pick up a broom,
and force her to move?
I guess,
I didn’t understand you,
you dirty old man,
you goddamned genius,
don’t try,
and do not fail,
don’t try
and die the mediocre life,
don’t try
and suffocate thoughts inside,
don’t try
to write,
but hold the pen,
every now and then,
and let the words suck,
as much as they possibly could,
one day,
it may,
be called the work of a genius,
it was a diary of a madman,

Girl in the cafe


There she sits,
in the middle of the cafe
-by the river side, 
and looking at the performing musician
-one she is with,
and trying to find her identity,
in someone else’s notes.
Bits by bits,
she crushes the pieces
of hashish
into her petite hands,
hoping no one notices her,
except for one,
she is looking at
with her drugged hypnotic eyes.
But she forgets
that her elegance is
much more melodious
than the notes
that she believes are
defining her.
Soon her fake identity
will disappear in the
white smoke,
in to the thin air,
on to a bed
and in to an oblivion
but not her elegance…

Our shared loneliness


Words can,
I cannot,
into a poem,
but long after the dust had settled,
and perpetual haze
had cleared out,
you would find me
waiting for you,
right where you left me.
For it was easier for me
to blame you for going,
than sulking in guilt
for letting you go.
the noise anxiety would attenuate,
and silences would whisper my name in your ear,
don’t be afraid to follow them home,
to me,
to us,
and our shared loneliness.