It's a play,
of broken kites,
and ill-fitted dreams
In the park,
where alone,
night runs
In two pigtails,
and ribbons,
of red satin
The swings,
they clap,
oh so empty
The streetlight
so dim,
but night glistens
Toothy giggles,
sneakered feet,
six years old
She runs,
a game of catch,
in circles of dust
The kite falls,
out stretches night,
its tiny arms
But the night,
to die,
it must grow
Still it plays,
this night,
so young
So let this kite,
have one,
last gust
Then ,
let it lie,
finally with dust
For,
the night is young,
so the play must stretch
So she,
spills more dreams,
for the kites to cut
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Sunday, October 22, 2006
4 year long Imaginary conversation
Good conquered evil that we celebrate today. So we're told to remember. Remember to begin this new year, not just with lights around but within.
But sometimes there is good and nothing else. Does nothingness become evil?
Does it matter to know?
When the Good just stood by patiently. When they wrapped brambles around themselves and left petals for your feet. When they blew the cold winds that break homes away. When they stood by a man stabbed and dying, despite being a stranger.
It matters to know. For them to know.
There's us, we of the Nothingness. We're insignificant, our actions of no importance. Sometimes we too become a bit of You. But mostly, we're not the Evil that resides far yonder, but the nothingness in between that makes our existence pointless. For atleast Evil stands beside you and startles us with a reminder of who You are.
For atleast Evil challenges You.
But sometimes Nothing also can contrast with You. Because those of us who lie in what Does Not Exist are only too painfully aware of what Does when we see You.
You. The Good.
But sometimes there is good and nothing else. Does nothingness become evil?
Does it matter to know?
When the Good just stood by patiently. When they wrapped brambles around themselves and left petals for your feet. When they blew the cold winds that break homes away. When they stood by a man stabbed and dying, despite being a stranger.
It matters to know. For them to know.
There's us, we of the Nothingness. We're insignificant, our actions of no importance. Sometimes we too become a bit of You. But mostly, we're not the Evil that resides far yonder, but the nothingness in between that makes our existence pointless. For atleast Evil stands beside you and startles us with a reminder of who You are.
For atleast Evil challenges You.
But sometimes Nothing also can contrast with You. Because those of us who lie in what Does Not Exist are only too painfully aware of what Does when we see You.
You. The Good.
Friday, October 13, 2006
An Early Winter
You would know.
The softness of the snow as it plops on the ground withsuch gentleness.
Stretch out your arm and it tingles on your palm. Before it disappears like soap bubbles.
Do you smile?
And yet snow too turns ice.
All there is, is a chill. A chill. Suddenly.
Because the Snow Queen had sent her messengers knocking at your door. Do you hear it?
For the cottony stark white that would innocently cushion you as you lay in it. Sink onto itself and let your body mark it. Let your limbs press it against itself. So when you get up abruptly and leave it too lies in wait. Let's your body's imprints lie on itself.
And maybe if you'd stopped, turned around, you'd have seen the purity you'd vandalized.
But you forget that it lies. Outside.
Your mistress they say!
You were to be bethrothed. In the cologne that still clings to where you lay, in the carelessly strewn hair gel, aftershave lotion on the marble counter, lie these signs of wedded bliss.
Till the bliss hissed into the air and stung you like a sharp fanged cobra.
Maybe a mistress was just who she'd been
So snow fell upon snow. And snow fell upon ice.
Ice that you stamped out of your shoes and discarded in the shoes you left strewn around carelessly in the blue collar of the house.
So the snow upon snow, the ice took your leave.
It now trickles, empties out of your sight. You don't even of the rivulets that pack their bags in quiet dignity and leave.
She shuts the backdoor softly quietly.
She walks down the sidewalk without a noise.
She doesn't awaken you in the morning.
She leaves your coffee brewing in a cold heated home.
It sleeps by your side at night.
Lets you straighten your back and your muscles untense.
It lets the fight leave you. Then awakens before dawn, puts on a snow white coat and tiptoes out.
it walks down the sidewalk. And your house is in perfect order. Till you find a note scrawled in black cursive ink.
Winter had come to an end. But now all that remains is a sudden chill in the air.
It walks down the sidewalk. As it leaves you.
She leaves you without a word.
And a sudden chill snakes into where the snow melted from.
Winter had ended.
But you'd been left with a cold shoulder.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
A picturebook
Waterdrops oval elongated.
Pure, musical.
Vibrating, resonating around us.
Sit by my side right here.
Soak in your feet.
At the edge where I sit.
Where my naked feet gently ripple the calm river.
Soak in your feet.
At the edge where I sit.
Where my naked feet gently ripple the calm river.
It's a story book illustration isn't it?
What story would you like to be today?
Take this easel.
Paint me relief.
Charcoal me in.
Use your fingertips.
Smooth the lines.
But you say you can't draw.
It's a storybook illustration.
Let me show.
The sun in the mirror.
A careless pile of hay.
A red barn door.
Breeze whistling through.
Grass swaying to the whistle. Holding hands.
Leaves gently bowing.
Where we sit.
It's a perfect illustration isn't it?
I know what story I want to be.
So here.
Take this paper.
Write me a poem.
Let your assurance be the metric.
Let my silence be your rhyme.
Dedicate it to Future.
It's a a perfect storybook illustration today.
We're in it.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Smashed
Listen.
Pour all your poison into blotches on this skin.
Press it on hard push it through your pores.
Let this black and brown line you more.
Look. You now have a a distinct pattern.
Let Coach purchase it for their Limited Edition.
But now, pay heed, for this is important.
Shed this skin when you've finished, I caution.
For feet to trample, they need a hide
For this skin they shall have, even if to skin alive.
So mark my words, O Simpleton
Shed this skin, make a run.
Pour all your poison into blotches on this skin.
Press it on hard push it through your pores.
Let this black and brown line you more.
Look. You now have a a distinct pattern.
Let Coach purchase it for their Limited Edition.
But now, pay heed, for this is important.
Shed this skin when you've finished, I caution.
For feet to trample, they need a hide
For this skin they shall have, even if to skin alive.
So mark my words, O Simpleton
Shed this skin, make a run.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
In the crowd of a fair
" I believe Mute had died a few days ago"
"What do you mean?"
" It died a few days ago but it is only now that I see. I don't write much anymore. It's gone. Used up.
I poured it all into one big yellow balloon and now it has floated away from me.
Out of sight. Beyond what I can see.
The Wind just came and tugged away my child. Lured to it the open skies. Showed it all the freedom I couldn't give.
My words were getting choked on themselves.
There were too many though my child seemed too young for such a thought.
So my words crashed and bumped into each other instead of sitting in their allotted spaces.
They thought it was time to go hunt for an identity. But they bumped into each other and knew not one from the other or themselves.
They asked which one of us is new? Unique?
Which one of us Ma, is special?
What could I say? They were all mine.
They were all special.
But my children didn't want to hear such an answer. Each child jumped and hopped. Hoped if it would leap higher it would be my favourite. But a mother's love doesn't favour.
So one by one they left my hand in this crowd fair where I stand afraid. Where I clutched them close.
But they left my hand anyway and floated to freedom of the skies away from the strangling hold of their mother's love.
My children took the stranger's candy. Left my hand to walk
In the crowds of the chameleon skies.
And there wasn't even a goodbye. "
"What do you mean?"
" It died a few days ago but it is only now that I see. I don't write much anymore. It's gone. Used up.
I poured it all into one big yellow balloon and now it has floated away from me.
Out of sight. Beyond what I can see.
The Wind just came and tugged away my child. Lured to it the open skies. Showed it all the freedom I couldn't give.
My words were getting choked on themselves.
There were too many though my child seemed too young for such a thought.
So my words crashed and bumped into each other instead of sitting in their allotted spaces.
They thought it was time to go hunt for an identity. But they bumped into each other and knew not one from the other or themselves.
They asked which one of us is new? Unique?
Which one of us Ma, is special?
What could I say? They were all mine.
They were all special.
But my children didn't want to hear such an answer. Each child jumped and hopped. Hoped if it would leap higher it would be my favourite. But a mother's love doesn't favour.
So one by one they left my hand in this crowd fair where I stand afraid. Where I clutched them close.
But they left my hand anyway and floated to freedom of the skies away from the strangling hold of their mother's love.
My children took the stranger's candy. Left my hand to walk
In the crowds of the chameleon skies.
And there wasn't even a goodbye. "
Saturday, September 16, 2006
A thought
There's a thought that circles her where she sits with her legs under her and hair messily around her face.
It is a frightening thought. Which circles up and down around her. She doesn't see it. But the closer it gets the less she breathes.
It's whizzing by close, so close it raises up a slight rush of air on her skin from where it races by.
And she breathes more erratically. Words don't form. Coherence is crushed.
Her ribs feel a pounding within. Massive rushes of painful blows within.
She can hear her organs struggle to keep her alive but it isn't that which is frightening.
It is this thought, this shameless vicious thought. This thought that sucks out all the air from where it dwells.
This thought.
This morbid thought.
It is a frightening thought. Which circles up and down around her. She doesn't see it. But the closer it gets the less she breathes.
It's whizzing by close, so close it raises up a slight rush of air on her skin from where it races by.
And she breathes more erratically. Words don't form. Coherence is crushed.
Her ribs feel a pounding within. Massive rushes of painful blows within.
She can hear her organs struggle to keep her alive but it isn't that which is frightening.
It is this thought, this shameless vicious thought. This thought that sucks out all the air from where it dwells.
This thought.
This morbid thought.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Insufficient
There had been calm for a while. P'haps too long.
So the fire alarms were rung where no smoke arose. Panic -was necessary.
The shrill sounds mercilessly twang against metal. Pounding eardrums. Sending the heartbeat into an erratic frenzy.
She thought drinking from the yellow pool was a good excuse. To be deceitful.
To contemplate the forbidden.
To feign, the yellow instead of the clear, hazed up one's mind.
As if that was reason enough to push Them off a canyon into the sharp projections of the sword-like stones.
In a canyon so wide, one's voice never echoed for it lost its way , its sound.
So deep, one never heard boulders strike ground.
No, not even in thought was it justified.
Not when we had pricked our hearts and exchanged blood .
A promise bound.
Worn in lockets.
Above the pulsating muscled organ in our chests.
But now you see- the one in your locket?
Was the impure one.
So the fire alarms were rung where no smoke arose. Panic -was necessary.
The shrill sounds mercilessly twang against metal. Pounding eardrums. Sending the heartbeat into an erratic frenzy.
She thought drinking from the yellow pool was a good excuse. To be deceitful.
To contemplate the forbidden.
To feign, the yellow instead of the clear, hazed up one's mind.
As if that was reason enough to push Them off a canyon into the sharp projections of the sword-like stones.
In a canyon so wide, one's voice never echoed for it lost its way , its sound.
So deep, one never heard boulders strike ground.
No, not even in thought was it justified.
Not when we had pricked our hearts and exchanged blood .
A promise bound.
Worn in lockets.
Above the pulsating muscled organ in our chests.
But now you see- the one in your locket?
Was the impure one.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
A lost cloud
There's a lonely cloud stuck in the midst of this spruce studded mountain.
There's a horde of clouds migrating to the North. Towards the Arctic Circle ready to envelope the sun to bring in the winter of 10 months.
But there is this lonely cloud stuck right above a crowd of spruce as though the baby wandered for a few minutes and got stuck in the centre of a circle of prickly bullies. And there it has stayed since, lost from its kind, away from fulfilling what it had supposed, was its Purpose of life.
So it stays as a little mist, a halo, in the centre of this towering maze of glacier rivulets and waterfalls where hikers can sit under.
In the middle of the mountain facing a marshy shoreline, it's the little heaven this tiny cloud was meant to bring.
There's a horde of clouds migrating to the North. Towards the Arctic Circle ready to envelope the sun to bring in the winter of 10 months.
But there is this lonely cloud stuck right above a crowd of spruce as though the baby wandered for a few minutes and got stuck in the centre of a circle of prickly bullies. And there it has stayed since, lost from its kind, away from fulfilling what it had supposed, was its Purpose of life.
So it stays as a little mist, a halo, in the centre of this towering maze of glacier rivulets and waterfalls where hikers can sit under.
In the middle of the mountain facing a marshy shoreline, it's the little heaven this tiny cloud was meant to bring.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
A shirt worn as promised
There's a place where I've hidden from Them All all of what you've given me.
In the closet, under the stacks of many cards and photo albums, is a more precious pile of memory. Safely locked in the treasure chest.
Your many kindnesses.
I started cynically. Too many pebbles were needed to bring water up. Water-That seemed to not exist.
For one thirsty summer morning, at the unfortunate hour of 9, it had all been mercilessly pumped out and thrown into a barren desert for the sun to drink up while the naked Marasmus children watched.
The irnoy. For water to be thrown when it was needed most. The sun is p'haps just like a star. Thoughtless and self centered.
But the world still revolves around stars. Atleast- ours does.
But I threw them in. In a well kept under lock and key. Discreetly.
Revolutions later, water has risen upto where light shines and I'm astonished.
There's enough kindness to see - it's almost all you see.
And I've saved enough.
Enough to purchase happiness.
Again.
In the closet, under the stacks of many cards and photo albums, is a more precious pile of memory. Safely locked in the treasure chest.
Your many kindnesses.
I started cynically. Too many pebbles were needed to bring water up. Water-That seemed to not exist.
For one thirsty summer morning, at the unfortunate hour of 9, it had all been mercilessly pumped out and thrown into a barren desert for the sun to drink up while the naked Marasmus children watched.
The irnoy. For water to be thrown when it was needed most. The sun is p'haps just like a star. Thoughtless and self centered.
But the world still revolves around stars. Atleast- ours does.
But I threw them in. In a well kept under lock and key. Discreetly.
Revolutions later, water has risen upto where light shines and I'm astonished.
There's enough kindness to see - it's almost all you see.
And I've saved enough.
Enough to purchase happiness.
Again.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
An Obscure One on One Wednesday
Here.
Take some water paints and colour me a wish.
Bring alive tufts of mossy leaves. And then step aside as I part.
Part these soft fragile bursts of summer. To let the mists pour through.
And sink right into them, lost from where you are.
And whence you wish-spill a bottle of oceans.
And I'll rise yet again from canvas.
But oh look!
Look above.
Sneak a peek at the clouds.
Today, these shifting mists?
Are mine.
Don't make me tap the impatient foot. Grab your skirts for we must run.
To catch the castle of 12'0 clock.
3 wouldn't and nor would 4, 12 it must be and 12'o clock it is so.
So for today, for now.... this?
Is enough.
Contract freedom is enough.
Take some water paints and colour me a wish.
Bring alive tufts of mossy leaves. And then step aside as I part.
Part these soft fragile bursts of summer. To let the mists pour through.
And sink right into them, lost from where you are.
And whence you wish-spill a bottle of oceans.
And I'll rise yet again from canvas.
But oh look!
Look above.
Sneak a peek at the clouds.
Today, these shifting mists?
Are mine.
Don't make me tap the impatient foot. Grab your skirts for we must run.
To catch the castle of 12'0 clock.
3 wouldn't and nor would 4, 12 it must be and 12'o clock it is so.
So for today, for now.... this?
Is enough.
Contract freedom is enough.
Friday, August 18, 2006
A Cheat hits Replay
Maybe you wouldn't believe me if I were to tell you so but my insides stretch within as they fit in a smile too big for my lips.
There's a laugh that's low and deep. It's silent and yet joyous in it's amused delight.
And I strain to hear it- this unusual wave that I want to see before it crashes down again and melts into the sea.
I don't want to know who you are stranger. But I wish I could tell you just how you sound. I'd capture it in a glass jar and show you. Then I'd immerse myself in it as the silent waves of your laugh zoom by me.
And I'll close my eyes and sigh and hit repeat.
There's a laugh that's low and deep. It's silent and yet joyous in it's amused delight.
And I strain to hear it- this unusual wave that I want to see before it crashes down again and melts into the sea.
I don't want to know who you are stranger. But I wish I could tell you just how you sound. I'd capture it in a glass jar and show you. Then I'd immerse myself in it as the silent waves of your laugh zoom by me.
And I'll close my eyes and sigh and hit repeat.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
On Independence Day
Not too long ago, on an Independence Day, a white sequined salwar kurta was worn.
How many ironies, you will not know.
P'haps the thronging crowds and countless netas with their even more countless chelas may have been a nuisance. In public spaces that didn't need more dirt or paan stains- their commemoration for our svatantrata. Freedom to be a pain.
P'haps the squished, the torn, the held, the adorned, marigold garlands may have been pathetic to look at. For flowers to be plucked for such futility.
And p'haps the cliched North Indian heat was unbearable and oppressive. Smothering its heavy hand over our mouth and noses. Nary a breath be taken.
But a white sequined salwar kurta was put on.
Sequined. White. New.
Too many ironies for one to count.
Incense clung to it as chhaunk stings your nose. It was used and then thrown.
Like a widow put aside from one's eyes for the misfortune to the family she has shown. To wither but away from your sight. To lament and cry but away from your eyes.
For someone ought to have said,
How many ironies, you will not know.
P'haps the thronging crowds and countless netas with their even more countless chelas may have been a nuisance. In public spaces that didn't need more dirt or paan stains- their commemoration for our svatantrata. Freedom to be a pain.
P'haps the squished, the torn, the held, the adorned, marigold garlands may have been pathetic to look at. For flowers to be plucked for such futility.
And p'haps the cliched North Indian heat was unbearable and oppressive. Smothering its heavy hand over our mouth and noses. Nary a breath be taken.
But a white sequined salwar kurta was put on.
Sequined. White. New.
Too many ironies for one to count.
Incense clung to it as chhaunk stings your nose. It was used and then thrown.
Like a widow put aside from one's eyes for the misfortune to the family she has shown. To wither but away from your sight. To lament and cry but away from your eyes.
For someone ought to have said,
A white salwar kurta must never be owned
For if it's been made, it must be worn.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Arz kiya hai
kaid aise rahen kyun,ki chaabi humari jeb mein
kaid aise rahen kyun, ki chaabi humari jeb mein
ghuma diya woh baksa, theen jismein tumhari yaadein
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
A pot of red
Let me show
This tree of red brick
It oozes slowly
But layers thick
But layers thick
It was Maple
In a summer green
Now of this expanse
It's the Bandit Queen
I seek a time
when it wasn't so
Will these bangles show me
I must know
Pick and hunt 'em
Wipe to see
Will they bring
What I threw carelessly
These bangles
Once of colour
Remain red
Despite the rubbing fervour
Despite the rubbing fervour
But you must believe
So come let's see
There's a red
Covering a mighty tree
Stand where I stand
And tell me if it isn't true
The tree in August
Is only of a red hue
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
For regular posts please scroll down.
As you can all see, there has [finally!] been a change in template [after may hours phew].
I was told that my previous template was tricky on the eyes - so I hope this one reads better T!
Many thanks to Isha of Achromatic Perspective for her help in photoshop.
Hope you all like this new look.
As you can all see, there has [finally!] been a change in template [after may hours phew].
I was told that my previous template was tricky on the eyes - so I hope this one reads better T!
Many thanks to Isha of Achromatic Perspective for her help in photoshop.
Hope you all like this new look.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Compromise
"Ay! Can you take a printout of this link I'll just message you?"
"theek" ............
"That was quick- thanks !"
"Why are you tearing it apart?!"
"Why do you think I asked you to print it?"
"To tear it?!"
"Yes of course"
"Who even does that? Why?"
"Because this paper is filled with expectations"
"You know what you want. So what!"
"I know what I do not want. I know that this paper will remind me, should I forget, of what I didn't want to live with.
And I don't want that. It's not how it should be."
"Who said it shouldn't be like that?"
"I heard it."
"Where?"
"When I went outside today"
"So you finally went outside only to come back slightly deranged?I thought fresh air was supposed to broaden your horizons"
"That's why I'm tearing it up"
"Then you won't have any opinions!! You needn't broaden it so much that all there is left is breadth and none of you!"
"M, think of it this way. I am wiping a slate. I'm starting again"
"So you're tearing it up to create a new list?"
"No. There won't be any lists now on"
"So the slate will remain blank- forever?!"
"Yes it will"
"So you want to be faceless and forgetable? Or you want to leave it blank for others to write what they want to see and you'll let them?"
"No M. Think of it as this. As a blank slate, what do you see? Black. Stark black. But isn't black special? It can absorb any and every colour. It's what makes it black. And it's why it remains black. I can absorb, bear, be anything and everything at every given time. It doesn't matter what someone is like then anymore or what they write. I shall take it all. And yet....... I shall remain unchanged"
"That's a nice euphemism for being a doormat."
"I was destined to be black."
"You weren't. You went outside and learnt black is in. Why do you think that is so? Because Whites like that. They like it because they don't want to 'taint' themselves with a splash of colour . They don't because they repel changes . Because changes are difficult. It's easier to say - be black! Take it all in!"
"I used to say that M. But I was wrong. I must be. I have to be. "
"Congratulations. You are now afraid to be someone."
"theek" ............
"That was quick- thanks !"
"Why are you tearing it apart?!"
"Why do you think I asked you to print it?"
"To tear it?!"
"Yes of course"
"Who even does that? Why?"
"Because this paper is filled with expectations"
"You know what you want. So what!"
"I know what I do not want. I know that this paper will remind me, should I forget, of what I didn't want to live with.
And I don't want that. It's not how it should be."
"Who said it shouldn't be like that?"
"I heard it."
"Where?"
"When I went outside today"
"So you finally went outside only to come back slightly deranged?I thought fresh air was supposed to broaden your horizons"
"That's why I'm tearing it up"
"Then you won't have any opinions!! You needn't broaden it so much that all there is left is breadth and none of you!"
"M, think of it this way. I am wiping a slate. I'm starting again"
"So you're tearing it up to create a new list?"
"No. There won't be any lists now on"
"So the slate will remain blank- forever?!"
"Yes it will"
"So you want to be faceless and forgetable? Or you want to leave it blank for others to write what they want to see and you'll let them?"
"No M. Think of it as this. As a blank slate, what do you see? Black. Stark black. But isn't black special? It can absorb any and every colour. It's what makes it black. And it's why it remains black. I can absorb, bear, be anything and everything at every given time. It doesn't matter what someone is like then anymore or what they write. I shall take it all. And yet....... I shall remain unchanged"
"That's a nice euphemism for being a doormat."
"I was destined to be black."
"You weren't. You went outside and learnt black is in. Why do you think that is so? Because Whites like that. They like it because they don't want to 'taint' themselves with a splash of colour . They don't because they repel changes . Because changes are difficult. It's easier to say - be black! Take it all in!"
"I used to say that M. But I was wrong. I must be. I have to be. "
"Congratulations. You are now afraid to be someone."
Thursday, July 27, 2006
55-The End
His father yelled at him, “I will not have you falling into such immorality”, refusing to take His name.
The only option? Death, since He couldn’t be his.
He looked around for the nearest weapon. He grabbed a pillow and suffocated Him.
“I loved you. You’ll be missed”, he said.
He had killed his dream.
The only option? Death, since He couldn’t be his.
He looked around for the nearest weapon. He grabbed a pillow and suffocated Him.
“I loved you. You’ll be missed”, he said.
He had killed his dream.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Remembrance
There's a sun set somewhere but it doesn't matter.
There's a blue dress billowing out in the sultry air, trying to awaken an unmoving glossy head.
She's young but bent grotesquely now. There isn't anyone to check why.
A few gulls call out in their cacophony. Their shrill sounds move her. She longs to join their cries.
There's a hint of silver that catches the sun's sinking rays. A cellphone lying in a heap of sand. Like it was flung as a badly aimed pebble into the sea.
It has rung several times since.
She must return she realizes, to glide smoothly back into a posture of normalcy.
It's time to put in a few flowers of token remembrance into beds of Lego green bricks.
To speak of you in 500 words. Like summarizing the most splended summer vacation in 2 pages for grade 7 English reports.
To pick and choose you. As if you were merely a story book to be summarized into and trivialized as non-chalantly.
Metal pooled in, fires fanned miles.
Flesh and blood. Hearts and brains. Blown up, strewn- far and wide. In death you were all one.
But they say the spirit of this city, our city once, will not be broken. That what happened to you, to them, will not move this city.
They need only say as much to have reduced your erstwhile existence to negligible. Unimportant.
In being forgotten too, you were all one.
This dartardly city with it's insensitive people. Like every other city in this world, I can now see.
I won't be speaking about you today. I didn't submit your photograph to be featured for 5 seconds on stage in 'remembrance'. I won't go to put flowers in your memory.
I will not open a sheet of paper to drop my tears over in public.
Because it is only this grief that now remains of you with me. And I shall not share that with the insensitive.
I shall not let them trivialize even this of you.
There's a blue dress billowing out in the sultry air, trying to awaken an unmoving glossy head.
She's young but bent grotesquely now. There isn't anyone to check why.
A few gulls call out in their cacophony. Their shrill sounds move her. She longs to join their cries.
There's a hint of silver that catches the sun's sinking rays. A cellphone lying in a heap of sand. Like it was flung as a badly aimed pebble into the sea.
It has rung several times since.
She must return she realizes, to glide smoothly back into a posture of normalcy.
It's time to put in a few flowers of token remembrance into beds of Lego green bricks.
To speak of you in 500 words. Like summarizing the most splended summer vacation in 2 pages for grade 7 English reports.
To pick and choose you. As if you were merely a story book to be summarized into and trivialized as non-chalantly.
Metal pooled in, fires fanned miles.
Flesh and blood. Hearts and brains. Blown up, strewn- far and wide. In death you were all one.
But they say the spirit of this city, our city once, will not be broken. That what happened to you, to them, will not move this city.
They need only say as much to have reduced your erstwhile existence to negligible. Unimportant.
In being forgotten too, you were all one.
This dartardly city with it's insensitive people. Like every other city in this world, I can now see.
I won't be speaking about you today. I didn't submit your photograph to be featured for 5 seconds on stage in 'remembrance'. I won't go to put flowers in your memory.
I will not open a sheet of paper to drop my tears over in public.
Because it is only this grief that now remains of you with me. And I shall not share that with the insensitive.
I shall not let them trivialize even this of you.
In memory of all those passed away in the Mumbai blasts of July 11th. In memory of all those in terrorist bombings that are now spread worldwide.
May the bastards who killed you, who defend those murderers' 'human rights', who protest about 'injustices' borne by those who killed you- may they all never find peace for having forgotten so easily the wrongs done to you and your dear ones.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Mehendi Memories- completed
Droplets of sweat caress my brow, speckled with creamy white chandan*. Black sequins adorn the wine red lehenga*, sparkling in the inky fluid night. The mehendi* annoys me as it circles and flowers my hands and I remember..........
We were young once again. Mehendi was mud meandering on my palms. Or so you'd said as you smashed my palms into each other and laughed. Boys can be like that.
I cried.
I couldn't go to Mama's* wedding like that I had said. All the girls had beautiful mehendi and I was left with ugly filthy looking hands.
"What if Mehek Mami notices them too?", I asked with fresh tears sliding across my plump cheeks. Was that a look of regret that passed your face? I couldn't tell. 7 year olds can't read faces very well you see. You grabbed the nook of my arm and made me wash my hands.
"Yaheen ruko aur hilna mat. Theek?" *
What is that you were holding on to as you ran back to where I stood in the aangan- a sketch pen?
"Yeh kyun? "* I ask with a frown wondering if the 8 year old you wasn't as smart as I had thought. Maybe Kittu was wrong about you.
"Art M'am says I can draw well. I'll sketch like this" ,you said pointing to Geeta Kaki's**** 100 Bridal mehendi designs page 10 under the Fair & lovely ad. "Then you will have pretty hands too" and you smile.
I look uncertain but you hold my hand and begin without waiting for my answer.
chandan= sandalwood [paste]
lehenga= Indian skirt like flowing long garment worn by girls and women
mehendi = also commonly known as henna [tattoo] in North America
Mama= maternal Uncle
Yaheen ruko aur hilna mat. Theek?= stay right here and don't leave ok?
yeh kyun?= why this?
Kaki= paternal aunt
-------------------------------------------------------------
Mummy smiled when I showed her my new mehendi.
I ran to where Kittu was sitting- swinging her feet perched on the red chairs that had been set up earlier that day. "Pura Thumbs up piyogi?!*", I asked astonished. Mummy didn't allow us to be that lucky. She said we'd waste it but I thought she didn't understand how thirsty you can get when you drink that kind of thanda*. Lucky Kittu, I thought enviously.
"What do you think of this haan?", I said putting my hands under her nose. Kittu said it was bakwaas*. But I didn't care. I didn't have to play with her anymore. So I just stuck out my tongue and ran off picking up my lehenga to not trip over it again.
I found you just in time to see the kids were playing hide -n-seek and that you were the denner*.
"Bhaago!*", we cried in a chorus, giggling as we snuck under tables covered with white tablecloths, chairs and those huge potted plants that lined the corners.
I hid myself behind an enormous pile of marigold garlands. Someone forgot them I think. So I sat behind them, huddled in a corner with knees hugged by my arms and legs drawn close to my chest. I thought I was so smart, as I waited to hear your footsteps.
"Game is over. Kunal was caught first.", he said smiling showing his batteesi*, " but you look like a kid like that", pointing to me.
" Kid?! YOU maybe a kid but not me. Besides, kid is the child of a goat, and my Mummy isn't a goat. Go see for yourself if you want. Kid-ha!", I said indignantly.
"Accha theek hai! Gussa mat ho na. Yeh lo*" and he opened his hand.
"Dairy milk!!"
Then I didn't know I was a 7 year old chocoholic but he had pleased that huge side of me.
I don't remember what stories we made up that night as we tore the petals off the marigolds and made a fragrant heap of red and gold like autumn leaves. But we didn't know what autumn leaves were like then, we were just waiting for my Mama to finally take rounds around the havan*.
"Was the panditji* late", we wondered. "Whatever else could be taking so long?", you said and then told me the story of a curious girl stuck in the strange world of talking rabbits and cards.
bakwaas= nonsense; rubbish
denner= Indian equivalent of 'It' in the game of Tag
bhaago= run!
batteesi= literally means 32 but is a Hindi expression for smiling widely and showing all [i.e. 32]teeth
Accha theek hai! Gussa mat ho na. Yeh lo= Alrite! Don't be annoyed with me and take this.
havan = sacrificial fire used in Hindu ceremonies
pandit= Hindu priest. ji used as a suffix when showing respect
-----------------------------------------------------------------
I stop looking at my mehendi and come out of my childhood memories. This mehendi which hides you in their colours. This mehendi that started our friendship very many years ago. That introduced a toothy 8 year old dashing boy to a 7 year old wise ass that I was.
This bridal mehendi that adorns my arms.
As the bride and groom are asked to take the phere* around the fire, I stand up. I walk slowly like a shy bride but my head is bowed for it is whirling with memories.
"I wrote to you two summers ago", I say in my thoughts. "Do you remember?" ............
---Sometimes I wish I didn't feel the way I did about you. That I could just give my heart to someone else.
Someone closer. Someone who isn't at the border. Someone who didn't answer the call to his patriotism.
Could you not be like Mohan Chacha* and serve our country with literacy programs or some women upliftment reforms? Or by improving our water resources or their rural availability?
I wish I could have an affair with someone else while you're away. I tried to but I couldn't stop searching for you in every man. Atleast with an affair I wouldn't miss you.
Or look for you in the fields, the terrace, the chowk*, the bazaar.
I wouldn't have to stop eating halwa* or ras malai* because everytime I try to I'd remember how much you loved sweets and how you're not with us to share them.
How can I have them when I know you can't and you are so fond of them?
I am not faithful because I want to.
I do not wait for you because I want to.
I am faithful and waiting because that is the only way I can now be. Because I am bound by the way I feel for you.
Why must you work with such dedication? Why can you not take leave and come visit us? Mummy says I must write more comforting thoughts to you but I am not at peace so I have nothing comforting to share with you.
Do you not miss us?
Do you remember how we used to play in my aangan* where we first met over my mama's wedding festivities? I like to sit there because I feel us there.
I feel that the four corners of the aangan have bound our childhood in them, p'haps saving them for me to live on while you're away.
Do hurry back for we all miss you so much. Even I do.
Yours, Me ---
.........The harvest was bad and Mummy had been pale. Very Sick. But we didn't know that. Not then.
I wrote to you two summers ago. Do you remember?
phere= also known as Parikrama or Pradakshina or Mangal Fera- The couple circles the sacred fire seven times in the wedding ceremony. This aspect of the ceremony legalizes the marriage according to the Hindu Marriage Act as well custom.Further here
chacha= paternal Uncle
chowk = intersection, public square [Thanks T!]
halwa = Indian sweet
ras malai = Indian sweet
aangan = Indian styled courtyard
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
The leaves swirled gently to the ground where a girl eyes had shone with delight as her love had twirled her. Where they had learnt ballroom dancing as the 2-in-1 played cassettes from a time that had been forgotten.
In the silence of being 6 corn fields away from civilization.
Where they met up during holidays- the long summer break, the Diwali* long break. When he'd return from the City where he studied engineering- only to join the army after his graduation.
It was his duty he'd said after he'd returned from the banks of Ganga*. And his mother had agreed. For the Rajput* blood ran strongly in her blood too as it had in her husband's.
She hadn't protested. She hadn't known he'd head to the border. Along the lines of those mountains with their unforgiving weather and warm people. Where his father had died as he had led his unit courageously.
And it was from the border, he'd written to her.
Lajjo, her naoon*, had told her that she had seen his mother prepare the Shagun* two sunsets before. She knew he was coming to ask for her hand.
So it was there, where the leaves spun gently through the air, to meet their Fate gracefully, as they kissed the ground, under the tree where they'd danced, and she'd smiled shyly each time he'd read out his passionate poems to her.
Where she had boldly, without a thought, pulled his hands to her waist and taught him to dance and since spent many evenings dancing slowly to the soft music.
Where he'd untie her long silky brown hair and watch it cascade around her shoulders down way below her waist.
Where she'd looked into his eyes and said she wasn't going to wait for him to do it .And then had kissed him.
Under this tree, 6 corn fields away from their havelis*, where they had laughed, cried, studied,read,danced and sang. Dreamt,kissed and loved.
It was here where she had sat waiting. For him.
ganga= river Ganges, considered holy by Hindus. Ashes of the cremated are immersed in its waters as a part of the final rites.
Rajput = a caste of Hindus known for their warriors and courage
Diwali= a major Hindu religious celebration
naoon= a term used in parts of Uttar Pradesh to refer to ladies employed to wash the hair of ladies from affluent families. Naoons, until 2 generations ago, worked mostly for Zamindari families where long hair were the pride of the ladies of the house and are rarely found in big cities today but you might find one in the smaller, less Westernized affluent parts of the state.
shagun=Shagun can be summarized as token presents exchanged by the two families once the alliance has been decided upon
haveli= an enclosed place, a traditional style of Indian residence,with atleast one courtyard but usually around 2-3. Commonly found in the state of Rajasthan but also found in the states of Uttaranchal, Uttar Pradesh and Madhya Pradesh.
----------------------------------------------------------------
There used to be a dreamy girl in our town. Who had awaited eagerly that day, for a soldier to take off his work clothes after months.
She'd waited where he'd told her to be.
There had been a crowd to meet him at the station. The crowds grew more as news of his arrival spread.
Such was the time that soon our town collected to meet the young man with a telling bronze and crisp khakis. Shehad known his mother had wanted them engaged after his arrival.
That night she didn't return home. Or the next.
She died that night. At the ghat* 2 kilometres away from the Shiv mandir*. Draped in a cloth of a never ending wheel.
I died because of him. P'haps Mummy would have said I musn't say that for it would hurt for him to hear it.
But I won't know if she would have because she left suddenly with a faint gasp, a whisper in a hollow tree. A struggling breeze caught in the shuffle of busy feet, lifting a fallen leaf tip for it's brief moment of flight, before it too lies under another sheaf of leaves under a shedding tree. Forgotten, laid to rest.
You were the only one who could cajole her after Baba* died. She didn't go. Not when her arms spindled away. Not when her veins burst and took away her hearing from her right ear. Not when she turned pale and even the midday sun wouldn't warm her.
She too died because of you.
I waited that day and you didn't see me. I didn't come to see you that night either. Not when Geeta Kaki asked me to.
Not when I saw your mother cry as I remained silent after she'd asked me to go, handing me what you hadn't said to me yourself. Folded neatly twice. In the blue ink of a Parker pen.
But that night, on the ghat where the last embers licked mercilessly, I killed myself.
I destroyed all our letters, your poems, telegrams and the books we'd read. I snipped my braids off and flung them into the pure waters of the ghat.
I didn't cry.
Dead people don't have the luxury of tears or sobs. Just coarse sounds that struggle from their depths over the clamps of strained palms. Like a mad woman who tears her hair when she's lost something . The sounds she'd carry with her long after she's forgotten what she lost.
I killed myself slowly as I did what you'd asked me to in your letter without a postmark.
You made me promise, as a dying man's words beseeched me, to not kill myself like you knew I would have.
But I did. I too died that day long before they lit your pyre.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My name was Akansha*. Where I'm from doesn't matter. There are many forgotten parts of this colossal land, all alike in their annonymity. There's no reason to remember our towns or villages.
I've long cremated the reasons to have been remembered.
I'm also no more.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
But a woman survived Akansha. Her name is insignificant and achingly new. Kept in following an old custom of renaming brides. It is her wedding that you'd asked for.
He leans gracefully to finalise our vows with the sacred necklace*. The gold flashes angrily as the fires blaze.
I watch our whispers drown in the glowering fire as I become another's wife.
ghat = check this link
mandir = hindu temple
Baba= in this usage, father
Akansha= loosely translated as hopes
sacred necklace= known as mangalsutra; made of two strings of a kind of black beads with a gold chain strung between the two and the three meet into a gold pendant. It is worn by married Hindu women.
Update: This story has also been featured here at Blogchaat
Fiction Writing Literature
We were young once again. Mehendi was mud meandering on my palms. Or so you'd said as you smashed my palms into each other and laughed. Boys can be like that.
I cried.
I couldn't go to Mama's* wedding like that I had said. All the girls had beautiful mehendi and I was left with ugly filthy looking hands.
"What if Mehek Mami notices them too?", I asked with fresh tears sliding across my plump cheeks. Was that a look of regret that passed your face? I couldn't tell. 7 year olds can't read faces very well you see. You grabbed the nook of my arm and made me wash my hands.
"Yaheen ruko aur hilna mat. Theek?" *
What is that you were holding on to as you ran back to where I stood in the aangan- a sketch pen?
"Yeh kyun? "* I ask with a frown wondering if the 8 year old you wasn't as smart as I had thought. Maybe Kittu was wrong about you.
"Art M'am says I can draw well. I'll sketch like this" ,you said pointing to Geeta Kaki's**** 100 Bridal mehendi designs page 10 under the Fair & lovely ad. "Then you will have pretty hands too" and you smile.
I look uncertain but you hold my hand and begin without waiting for my answer.
chandan= sandalwood [paste]
lehenga= Indian skirt like flowing long garment worn by girls and women
mehendi = also commonly known as henna [tattoo] in North America
Mama= maternal Uncle
Yaheen ruko aur hilna mat. Theek?= stay right here and don't leave ok?
yeh kyun?= why this?
Kaki= paternal aunt
-------------------------------------------------------------
Mummy smiled when I showed her my new mehendi.
I ran to where Kittu was sitting- swinging her feet perched on the red chairs that had been set up earlier that day. "Pura Thumbs up piyogi?!*", I asked astonished. Mummy didn't allow us to be that lucky. She said we'd waste it but I thought she didn't understand how thirsty you can get when you drink that kind of thanda*. Lucky Kittu, I thought enviously.
"What do you think of this haan?", I said putting my hands under her nose. Kittu said it was bakwaas*. But I didn't care. I didn't have to play with her anymore. So I just stuck out my tongue and ran off picking up my lehenga to not trip over it again.
I found you just in time to see the kids were playing hide -n-seek and that you were the denner*.
"Bhaago!*", we cried in a chorus, giggling as we snuck under tables covered with white tablecloths, chairs and those huge potted plants that lined the corners.
I hid myself behind an enormous pile of marigold garlands. Someone forgot them I think. So I sat behind them, huddled in a corner with knees hugged by my arms and legs drawn close to my chest. I thought I was so smart, as I waited to hear your footsteps.
"Game is over. Kunal was caught first.", he said smiling showing his batteesi*, " but you look like a kid like that", pointing to me.
" Kid?! YOU maybe a kid but not me. Besides, kid is the child of a goat, and my Mummy isn't a goat. Go see for yourself if you want. Kid-ha!", I said indignantly.
"Accha theek hai! Gussa mat ho na. Yeh lo*" and he opened his hand.
"Dairy milk!!"
Then I didn't know I was a 7 year old chocoholic but he had pleased that huge side of me.
I don't remember what stories we made up that night as we tore the petals off the marigolds and made a fragrant heap of red and gold like autumn leaves. But we didn't know what autumn leaves were like then, we were just waiting for my Mama to finally take rounds around the havan*.
"Was the panditji* late", we wondered. "Whatever else could be taking so long?", you said and then told me the story of a curious girl stuck in the strange world of talking rabbits and cards.
pura thumbs up piyogi?!= you get to drink the entire bottle of Thumbs Up, an Indian cola?!
thanda= cool drink in this contextbakwaas= nonsense; rubbish
denner= Indian equivalent of 'It' in the game of Tag
bhaago= run!
batteesi= literally means 32 but is a Hindi expression for smiling widely and showing all [i.e. 32]teeth
Accha theek hai! Gussa mat ho na. Yeh lo= Alrite! Don't be annoyed with me and take this.
havan = sacrificial fire used in Hindu ceremonies
pandit= Hindu priest. ji used as a suffix when showing respect
-----------------------------------------------------------------
I stop looking at my mehendi and come out of my childhood memories. This mehendi which hides you in their colours. This mehendi that started our friendship very many years ago. That introduced a toothy 8 year old dashing boy to a 7 year old wise ass that I was.
This bridal mehendi that adorns my arms.
As the bride and groom are asked to take the phere* around the fire, I stand up. I walk slowly like a shy bride but my head is bowed for it is whirling with memories.
"I wrote to you two summers ago", I say in my thoughts. "Do you remember?" ............
---Sometimes I wish I didn't feel the way I did about you. That I could just give my heart to someone else.
Someone closer. Someone who isn't at the border. Someone who didn't answer the call to his patriotism.
Could you not be like Mohan Chacha* and serve our country with literacy programs or some women upliftment reforms? Or by improving our water resources or their rural availability?
I wish I could have an affair with someone else while you're away. I tried to but I couldn't stop searching for you in every man. Atleast with an affair I wouldn't miss you.
Or look for you in the fields, the terrace, the chowk*, the bazaar.
I wouldn't have to stop eating halwa* or ras malai* because everytime I try to I'd remember how much you loved sweets and how you're not with us to share them.
How can I have them when I know you can't and you are so fond of them?
I am not faithful because I want to.
I do not wait for you because I want to.
I am faithful and waiting because that is the only way I can now be. Because I am bound by the way I feel for you.
Why must you work with such dedication? Why can you not take leave and come visit us? Mummy says I must write more comforting thoughts to you but I am not at peace so I have nothing comforting to share with you.
Do you not miss us?
Do you remember how we used to play in my aangan* where we first met over my mama's wedding festivities? I like to sit there because I feel us there.
I feel that the four corners of the aangan have bound our childhood in them, p'haps saving them for me to live on while you're away.
Do hurry back for we all miss you so much. Even I do.
Yours, Me ---
.........The harvest was bad and Mummy had been pale. Very Sick. But we didn't know that. Not then.
I wrote to you two summers ago. Do you remember?
phere= also known as Parikrama or Pradakshina or Mangal Fera- The couple circles the sacred fire seven times in the wedding ceremony. This aspect of the ceremony legalizes the marriage according to the Hindu Marriage Act as well custom.Further here
chacha= paternal Uncle
chowk = intersection, public square [Thanks T!]
halwa = Indian sweet
ras malai = Indian sweet
aangan = Indian styled courtyard
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
The leaves swirled gently to the ground where a girl eyes had shone with delight as her love had twirled her. Where they had learnt ballroom dancing as the 2-in-1 played cassettes from a time that had been forgotten.
In the silence of being 6 corn fields away from civilization.
Where they met up during holidays- the long summer break, the Diwali* long break. When he'd return from the City where he studied engineering- only to join the army after his graduation.
It was his duty he'd said after he'd returned from the banks of Ganga*. And his mother had agreed. For the Rajput* blood ran strongly in her blood too as it had in her husband's.
She hadn't protested. She hadn't known he'd head to the border. Along the lines of those mountains with their unforgiving weather and warm people. Where his father had died as he had led his unit courageously.
And it was from the border, he'd written to her.
Lajjo, her naoon*, had told her that she had seen his mother prepare the Shagun* two sunsets before. She knew he was coming to ask for her hand.
So it was there, where the leaves spun gently through the air, to meet their Fate gracefully, as they kissed the ground, under the tree where they'd danced, and she'd smiled shyly each time he'd read out his passionate poems to her.
Where she had boldly, without a thought, pulled his hands to her waist and taught him to dance and since spent many evenings dancing slowly to the soft music.
Where he'd untie her long silky brown hair and watch it cascade around her shoulders down way below her waist.
Where she'd looked into his eyes and said she wasn't going to wait for him to do it .And then had kissed him.
Under this tree, 6 corn fields away from their havelis*, where they had laughed, cried, studied,read,danced and sang. Dreamt,kissed and loved.
It was here where she had sat waiting. For him.
ganga= river Ganges, considered holy by Hindus. Ashes of the cremated are immersed in its waters as a part of the final rites.
Rajput = a caste of Hindus known for their warriors and courage
Diwali= a major Hindu religious celebration
naoon= a term used in parts of Uttar Pradesh to refer to ladies employed to wash the hair of ladies from affluent families. Naoons, until 2 generations ago, worked mostly for Zamindari families where long hair were the pride of the ladies of the house and are rarely found in big cities today but you might find one in the smaller, less Westernized affluent parts of the state.
shagun=Shagun can be summarized as token presents exchanged by the two families once the alliance has been decided upon
haveli= an enclosed place, a traditional style of Indian residence,with atleast one courtyard but usually around 2-3. Commonly found in the state of Rajasthan but also found in the states of Uttaranchal, Uttar Pradesh and Madhya Pradesh.
----------------------------------------------------------------
There used to be a dreamy girl in our town. Who had awaited eagerly that day, for a soldier to take off his work clothes after months.
She'd waited where he'd told her to be.
There had been a crowd to meet him at the station. The crowds grew more as news of his arrival spread.
Such was the time that soon our town collected to meet the young man with a telling bronze and crisp khakis. Shehad known his mother had wanted them engaged after his arrival.
That night she didn't return home. Or the next.
She died that night. At the ghat* 2 kilometres away from the Shiv mandir*. Draped in a cloth of a never ending wheel.
I died because of him. P'haps Mummy would have said I musn't say that for it would hurt for him to hear it.
But I won't know if she would have because she left suddenly with a faint gasp, a whisper in a hollow tree. A struggling breeze caught in the shuffle of busy feet, lifting a fallen leaf tip for it's brief moment of flight, before it too lies under another sheaf of leaves under a shedding tree. Forgotten, laid to rest.
You were the only one who could cajole her after Baba* died. She didn't go. Not when her arms spindled away. Not when her veins burst and took away her hearing from her right ear. Not when she turned pale and even the midday sun wouldn't warm her.
She too died because of you.
I waited that day and you didn't see me. I didn't come to see you that night either. Not when Geeta Kaki asked me to.
Not when I saw your mother cry as I remained silent after she'd asked me to go, handing me what you hadn't said to me yourself. Folded neatly twice. In the blue ink of a Parker pen.
But that night, on the ghat where the last embers licked mercilessly, I killed myself.
I destroyed all our letters, your poems, telegrams and the books we'd read. I snipped my braids off and flung them into the pure waters of the ghat.
I didn't cry.
Dead people don't have the luxury of tears or sobs. Just coarse sounds that struggle from their depths over the clamps of strained palms. Like a mad woman who tears her hair when she's lost something . The sounds she'd carry with her long after she's forgotten what she lost.
I killed myself slowly as I did what you'd asked me to in your letter without a postmark.
You made me promise, as a dying man's words beseeched me, to not kill myself like you knew I would have.
But I did. I too died that day long before they lit your pyre.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My name was Akansha*. Where I'm from doesn't matter. There are many forgotten parts of this colossal land, all alike in their annonymity. There's no reason to remember our towns or villages.
I've long cremated the reasons to have been remembered.
I'm also no more.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
But a woman survived Akansha. Her name is insignificant and achingly new. Kept in following an old custom of renaming brides. It is her wedding that you'd asked for.
He leans gracefully to finalise our vows with the sacred necklace*. The gold flashes angrily as the fires blaze.
I watch our whispers drown in the glowering fire as I become another's wife.
ghat = check this link
mandir = hindu temple
Baba= in this usage, father
Akansha= loosely translated as hopes
sacred necklace= known as mangalsutra; made of two strings of a kind of black beads with a gold chain strung between the two and the three meet into a gold pendant. It is worn by married Hindu women.
Update: This story has also been featured here at Blogchaat
Fiction Writing Literature
Saturday, July 08, 2006
Child's play
Shiny locks
heartbreakingly naive
oh what almond eyes !
nay she isn't chinese?
Pink pouty lil heart
a sharp tip is such crowned
a nose so delicate
she asked to be thrown around
she speaks softly
this japanese doll
tiny petite - a shove,
now see her fall!
peals of laughter
oh what glee!
we pull her hair
we scrape her knee!
Hold hands now!
Circle around.
She stands alone,
As circles abound.
Not a tear shed?
For shame!
To a nun now,
we'll call her name!
Pride must fall
Ah! you see?
We'll keep this on
till you flee!
Skinny legs run
as greys swirl
Some blues blow
as bullies twirl
heartbreakingly naive
oh what almond eyes !
nay she isn't chinese?
Pink pouty lil heart
a sharp tip is such crowned
a nose so delicate
she asked to be thrown around
she speaks softly
this japanese doll
tiny petite - a shove,
now see her fall!
peals of laughter
oh what glee!
we pull her hair
we scrape her knee!
Hold hands now!
Circle around.
She stands alone,
As circles abound.
Not a tear shed?
For shame!
To a nun now,
we'll call her name!
Pride must fall
Ah! you see?
We'll keep this on
till you flee!
Skinny legs run
as greys swirl
Some blues blow
as bullies twirl
Friday, June 30, 2006
Love letters and a carelessly strewn heart
Dear T,
This is my first letter to you and long overdue. But I have been blind- in vision, in heart, in mind. I was looking over your snaps and I realized........ you aren't what I had thought of you all along.
I should have given you a chance sooner than this. I should have met you with an open heart. I hope you don't hold it against one whose heart has been broken by others of your kind. That is my only excuse for my prejudice.
But I was unwilling for I saw your imperfections first. For I was too overwhelmed to move on as soon as we met. I'm sorry that it took me years to find a place for you in myself.
And I have been too proud to admit it so. Can you blame me? For one who can claim to such splendour, grandeur and richness. Yes I am proud and one who belongs to all that I do should be as well.
Oh I still do not find your background as magnificent. I know you shall not speak my language. I know I shall look for what you won't let me have. That I shall look for my past in you. I shall even hope fervently for you to let my past seep into you. For a bit of you, to be like a bit of me. Let me sink my palms into that glorious mosaic of yours. Let it remind all those who pass by what is yours that you're also a little bit of mine.
If only you'd try to look further than what you have already. But I am grateful that you look deeper than your big brother. I do not like his aggressiveness or how he would want everyone, even me, to be more like him than my own self.
I know your inability to stand for yourself against the peacekeepers bothers me- very much so if you must know. I do hope you'd stop being silly about it and see them for what they are. Oh and do read their pamphlets including fine print before you argue with me about their merits. Yes I do know better.
And yet your lack of aggression is what makes me feel more warm than your brother could ever have done. I want you to know this so that you shake yourself from his shadow and find your own self. Stop trying to spite him dear- isn't that why you say you like the peacekeepers isn't it? But you know what they tried to do behind your back don't you? I won't say I told you.
It hurt me too afterall.
There is much that is left to be said. And felt. But I do not have the means or time to indulge in either for long.
Will you remember me once I am gone?I hope you await my return for I shall miss you so. I want you to envelope me in your warmth once again on my return. I chanced upon the realization that you've grown warmer towards me in these past few years. I have but a few months. Will you give yourself to me in all your glory?
I don't want to take away photo albums of you , of us. I want to leave in agony on our separation. Draw me back to yourself, make me return.The South American dictator, whom I do care for as deeply, must know that I want my children to know you just as she said. As their own.
But for now, let me go. Let me live what I have wanted. What you couldn't give me. Grant me this freedom to leave you.
But I promise you this- I shall return. And then again, accept me.
much love Me
p.s.: do laugh heartily for I would like you to join me.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
Meat shop incident
Her ankle length close fit denim skirt swished around her sharply cutting through the air as she ran.
No! Don't ! Don't! , she screamed. No! Please, no!
She stopped the butcher's hand in midair. Hoping to wrestle the instrument with the evil glint out of her hands , away from the delicate strings.
The butcher pulled away her hands before she could wrench the knife.
I've told you this must be done!, she said with a stern glare.
But you can't! , she said as sticky fat hands grabbed her throat, pressing savagely at her adam's apple. Please! You know how much I need this! , as her voice rose an octave with desperation.
Do you really? That's what an unborn might say too till he's pulled out and breathes in without the cord. But he's forced to do it isn't he? Only then does he breathe on his own.
But how will I live? , as tears slid down her cheeks in rapid succession and leaped into nothingness off her sharply shaped chin.
You'll find the answers in due time child.What are you afraid of? You don't need a cord for bonds! she said and with an air of finality she butchered the strings.
She was on her own now.
No! Don't ! Don't! , she screamed. No! Please, no!
She stopped the butcher's hand in midair. Hoping to wrestle the instrument with the evil glint out of her hands , away from the delicate strings.
The butcher pulled away her hands before she could wrench the knife.
I've told you this must be done!, she said with a stern glare.
But you can't! , she said as sticky fat hands grabbed her throat, pressing savagely at her adam's apple. Please! You know how much I need this! , as her voice rose an octave with desperation.
Do you really? That's what an unborn might say too till he's pulled out and breathes in without the cord. But he's forced to do it isn't he? Only then does he breathe on his own.
But how will I live? , as tears slid down her cheeks in rapid succession and leaped into nothingness off her sharply shaped chin.
You'll find the answers in due time child.What are you afraid of? You don't need a cord for bonds! she said and with an air of finality she butchered the strings.
She was on her own now.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Pollen for my hair, flowers you may keep
Dances and ice cream trucks
Breeze through dandelions
Bloodied cafeteria meals
Mardi gras presents
Flowing tresses
Lifting up their wings.
Living out
Their independence.
Ironed, noodled.
Double edged scissors.
Living out
Prisoned categories
But aren't we too old now, my friend?
We're too old.
Tears in my eyes
As a thorn pricks you
Anger in my voice
As another maims you
Prickly hugs
Shrugged away
For heavier loads
Are arriving anyway
Here, not one
but two baalish I say
We'll anchor
While you sway
Because we're old now, my friend
We're too old
Alone, they say
Those calm shoulders
Night befalls
Curtained black stars
Here let's not give up
We'll stay hidden
We're not alone
Such is our Dark Room
Whisper out to me
before the Denners seek
Mouth hushed comfort
Let creased palms meet.
Because we're not as old, my friend
Not as old
Poem
Breeze through dandelions
Bloodied cafeteria meals
Mardi gras presents
Flowing tresses
Lifting up their wings.
Living out
Their independence.
Ironed, noodled.
Double edged scissors.
Living out
Prisoned categories
But aren't we too old now, my friend?
We're too old.
Tears in my eyes
As a thorn pricks you
Anger in my voice
As another maims you
Prickly hugs
Shrugged away
For heavier loads
Are arriving anyway
Here, not one
but two baalish I say
We'll anchor
While you sway
Because we're old now, my friend
We're too old
Alone, they say
Those calm shoulders
Night befalls
Curtained black stars
Here let's not give up
We'll stay hidden
We're not alone
Such is our Dark Room
Whisper out to me
before the Denners seek
Mouth hushed comfort
Let creased palms meet.
Because we're not as old, my friend
Not as old
Poem
Thursday, June 08, 2006
25 unlucky stairs
Clothed in black, we were brilliant.
Skinny, lithe, unlucky teen- truly.
Black shoes shining satin. Bony arms, muscles in the sprout. Midnight casually buttoned, loosely tucked in.
Thick fringes over pools of mischief. 25% of the sugar backboned staircase hadn't been climbed, not yet.
Our brilliance sparkled in the air. A snow globe- we were alone as backdrop dancers fell behind the curtains. The sparklers flew only under the winds of our feet.
Now stretched out in your soap sudded limestone tub, would you prefer to recline atop stapled notes of 100? It'll make a better display picture eh?
You asked me to the Towers. We were to twirl atop the city's highest. But the soap suds fell flat a while back. Jumping in won't freshen the stale water. The bubbles wouldn't be any clearer would they?
So I pulled plug. Get out of tub now Hotshot, the waters swirling already.
I couldn't make it to the Towers. The ballet shoes had to be packed right then.
Because you'd climbed the dreaded staircase.
Skinny, lithe, unlucky teen- truly.
Black shoes shining satin. Bony arms, muscles in the sprout. Midnight casually buttoned, loosely tucked in.
Thick fringes over pools of mischief. 25% of the sugar backboned staircase hadn't been climbed, not yet.
Our brilliance sparkled in the air. A snow globe- we were alone as backdrop dancers fell behind the curtains. The sparklers flew only under the winds of our feet.
Now stretched out in your soap sudded limestone tub, would you prefer to recline atop stapled notes of 100? It'll make a better display picture eh?
You asked me to the Towers. We were to twirl atop the city's highest. But the soap suds fell flat a while back. Jumping in won't freshen the stale water. The bubbles wouldn't be any clearer would they?
So I pulled plug. Get out of tub now Hotshot, the waters swirling already.
I couldn't make it to the Towers. The ballet shoes had to be packed right then.
Because you'd climbed the dreaded staircase.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Sweet corn whiffs
Hypnotic waves circle their magic. A song from a movie.
A sketch for a movie poster. Inspired by Women's Era illustrations of their stories perhaps.
Stories with happy endings. Safe. Certainity for those who flipped to them.
Hope was crackling in fire, roasting slowly as the fires licked it with a devilish grin. Bhutta. Sweet corn juice erupting from soft flesh. Sprinkled with salt and lemon. Hope wasn't delicious without them. Let the corns crackle a little longer.
What use have you for happiness for balance and stability the proud mother had said to her, she remembered of the book that lay next to her. A beautiful poisonous flower.
We can't work without bleeding. For it wasn't art if our blood didn't warm it.
But who wants to be an artist?
I'm just waiting for the corn on the cob to be done.
A sketch for a movie poster. Inspired by Women's Era illustrations of their stories perhaps.
Stories with happy endings. Safe. Certainity for those who flipped to them.
Hope was crackling in fire, roasting slowly as the fires licked it with a devilish grin. Bhutta. Sweet corn juice erupting from soft flesh. Sprinkled with salt and lemon. Hope wasn't delicious without them. Let the corns crackle a little longer.
What use have you for happiness for balance and stability the proud mother had said to her, she remembered of the book that lay next to her. A beautiful poisonous flower.
We can't work without bleeding. For it wasn't art if our blood didn't warm it.
But who wants to be an artist?
I'm just waiting for the corn on the cob to be done.
Twilight Indian
Twilight Indian and I had an odd friendship.
We connected briefly. Until Twilight's sadness overtook our conversational space.
You see- I knew Twilight mingled and liked it on some level. But all I felt around him was a large pool of mosaic aqua hues, a giant spherical tear on an expanse of smooth white marble.
It didn't frighten me. It overwhelmed me. Stopped my chattering mouth at his sight.
I was 'fraid he'd know I knew about what he hid. So we shared silences, some awkward, some uncomfortable.
I thought he'd found out that I knew by then.
But he only said I was cold and unfeeling and left the get-together shaking his head.
We connected briefly. Until Twilight's sadness overtook our conversational space.
You see- I knew Twilight mingled and liked it on some level. But all I felt around him was a large pool of mosaic aqua hues, a giant spherical tear on an expanse of smooth white marble.
It didn't frighten me. It overwhelmed me. Stopped my chattering mouth at his sight.
I was 'fraid he'd know I knew about what he hid. So we shared silences, some awkward, some uncomfortable.
I thought he'd found out that I knew by then.
But he only said I was cold and unfeeling and left the get-together shaking his head.
Ours was a brief friendship.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Karma-e-leon
I wanted him to take my name off his list. But I only smiled a greeting.
I didn't want to be lost in what he called 'friends'.
So general. So casual.
Like freshers during frosh or Orientation - "we're friends". And you've only p'haps met them 3 times since.
So insignificant.
I wanted him to not call me a friend. It didn't sound like he meant it anymore.
But then what do you say to people who've made it a habit to speak what they don't mean and flatter what is false and take pride in their charade?
I suppose it might be their one talent and I don't want to take that away from them. I just want them to keep it with them and not share it with me.
So here. A fake smile that I won't pass off as real.
So you know, I know. You're a liar.
I didn't want to be lost in what he called 'friends'.
So general. So casual.
Like freshers during frosh or Orientation - "we're friends". And you've only p'haps met them 3 times since.
So insignificant.
I wanted him to not call me a friend. It didn't sound like he meant it anymore.
But then what do you say to people who've made it a habit to speak what they don't mean and flatter what is false and take pride in their charade?
I suppose it might be their one talent and I don't want to take that away from them. I just want them to keep it with them and not share it with me.
So here. A fake smile that I won't pass off as real.
So you know, I know. You're a liar.
Now take my name off that offensive list.
Karma Karma Karma Karma Karma Chameleon
You come and go
You come and go*
*Lyrics from the old song Karma Chameleon
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Rigor mortis
We stood by a carnival.
Vibrant, crowded, colourful and noisy children.
A clown juggling bottles, a fire-breathing intimidating Kenyan man and green cotton candy. Techno music blaring out with the 'dare-devil' rides, ice- cream truck music by the food stalls.
We stood by the carnival aloof from it's festivities.
I was here to see Them. Some waved joyously. Some gave awkward first time smiles well meaning nonetheless. A few gave the cool glance.
The few who remained longer. Unfailingly silent. Nonchalant as their hopes hadn't been met. As they had grown tired of the pattern of the habit. Of people.
I looked away and walked towards the Balloon Man.
I purchased all his balloons and turned to face their direction. I looked at them and set free all the balloons.
P'haps someday they shall understand.
Vibrant, crowded, colourful and noisy children.
A clown juggling bottles, a fire-breathing intimidating Kenyan man and green cotton candy. Techno music blaring out with the 'dare-devil' rides, ice- cream truck music by the food stalls.
We stood by the carnival aloof from it's festivities.
I was here to see Them. Some waved joyously. Some gave awkward first time smiles well meaning nonetheless. A few gave the cool glance.
The few who remained longer. Unfailingly silent. Nonchalant as their hopes hadn't been met. As they had grown tired of the pattern of the habit. Of people.
I looked away and walked towards the Balloon Man.
I purchased all his balloons and turned to face their direction. I looked at them and set free all the balloons.
P'haps someday they shall understand.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Blue envelopes
There's no address to send to. Not anymore.
I didn't send them when I could have.
Blood has pooled in my feet, unable to push it back up, so heavy, this blood has become. But, it is right. It is right to not be able to move them. Ever.
Lavender walls. Lost summer green.
Yellow,well loved. 25.
Kaanch ke kaidi. Teen.
Malai. Relief.
Poem
I didn't send them when I could have.
Blood has pooled in my feet, unable to push it back up, so heavy, this blood has become. But, it is right. It is right to not be able to move them. Ever.
Lavender walls. Lost summer green.
Embedded gems. Cold farsh.
Yellow,well loved. 25.
Medicine cabinet. Mombatti.
Boiled water. A copper jug.
Bakse. Khazana.
Kaanch ke kaidi. Teen.
Jaali. Shor.
Malai. Relief.
Lavender. Lost summers
Skeletal prison. Gales.
Poem
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Sacred shrine
Torrents of a sacred river swished by violently. It's fluid raged against the pressure that had held them within.
They flowed away, like ungrateful offspring, leaving their nest without another glance. Leaving an aching parent. Rebelling against their oversheltered existence running away from their safe dwellings.
If only they knew, it wasn't them who had been in need for her.
He found a few pieces of glass as he stepped into the rushing waves. Turned them over in surprise-sharp razer edges gleaming in their viciousness.
He looked in horrified awe. How could they have stayed within this bulbous kindly sac, his eyes asked?
But you see, if he hadn't struck an axe to it, he'd never have found those pieces that caused so many sores.
Do you think he should keep striking till he has cleansed it of these shards of offensive blasted silica ?
It just might leave the sac as dry as a barren desert.
They flowed away, like ungrateful offspring, leaving their nest without another glance. Leaving an aching parent. Rebelling against their oversheltered existence running away from their safe dwellings.
If only they knew, it wasn't them who had been in need for her.
He found a few pieces of glass as he stepped into the rushing waves. Turned them over in surprise-sharp razer edges gleaming in their viciousness.
He looked in horrified awe. How could they have stayed within this bulbous kindly sac, his eyes asked?
But you see, if he hadn't struck an axe to it, he'd never have found those pieces that caused so many sores.
Do you think he should keep striking till he has cleansed it of these shards of offensive blasted silica ?
It just might leave the sac as dry as a barren desert.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Silent
I don't like talking anymore. I never did. We've not had that attraction most of you have unfortunately. So the affair was short-lived.
You're not listening. And I?I know it. I always did.
I'm tired.
Charades aren't fun. No. Not when I'm talking .
So we'll play charades. Dumb charades. We will sweets. You will all get your turn.
So here.
I'm Mute again.
You're not listening. And I?I know it. I always did.
I'm tired.
Charades aren't fun. No. Not when I'm talking .
So we'll play charades. Dumb charades. We will sweets. You will all get your turn.
So here.
I'm Mute again.
Finding Neverland
These highways now
We're cruising
Without doubting these breaths
We're breathing
We're cruising
Without doubting these breaths
We're breathing
Shelled in this amusement park
Still enchanted
These fantasies we're riding
Outside the story that never ends
Meet you again I shall
Poem
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Dedication
"hey!isse chakh ke bataao", she said with a look of eagerness that befits an amateur cook.
"cake?"
"haan baba. jaldi"
He makes a face.
"it's sweet"
"it's sweet? it's a cake!"
"well you didn't make it my way"
"which is?"
"It doesn't matter. You didn't make it my way. So I don't like it"
"I thought you like cakes, does the way matter?"
"Yes it does because I like cakes only when they're made my way in the way I see fit and only when I want it."
"Oh", she said with a dejected look, hurt creeping in but not in her voice.
"Accha toh fir bataao kaisa tumhe pasand hai?"
"Woh mere mood par depend karta hai"
"Humein tumhara mood kaise pata chalega?"
"We'll see about that", he said pushing the plate of chocolate fudge cake aside and leaving the kitchen.
She stood silently and took off her apron.
Cooking isn't for introverts.
"cake?"
"haan baba. jaldi"
He makes a face.
"it's sweet"
"it's sweet? it's a cake!"
"well you didn't make it my way"
"which is?"
"It doesn't matter. You didn't make it my way. So I don't like it"
"I thought you like cakes, does the way matter?"
"Yes it does because I like cakes only when they're made my way in the way I see fit and only when I want it."
"Oh", she said with a dejected look, hurt creeping in but not in her voice.
"Accha toh fir bataao kaisa tumhe pasand hai?"
"Woh mere mood par depend karta hai"
"Humein tumhara mood kaise pata chalega?"
"We'll see about that", he said pushing the plate of chocolate fudge cake aside and leaving the kitchen.
She stood silently and took off her apron.
Cooking isn't for introverts.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Find your flute now
O Piper !
Let the wisps follow
Lead them happily
In deep fires, make them wallow
Come now Piper
let them rest
A white velvet pouch
Token for your service
it lies empty
Find me
whence it's bursting
yet again
and we'll pipe it
yes we shall
but come now Piper
Hop Skip
for this is my bonfire
of delusional celebrations
Yes yes Piper
let's rejoice
till the mice
resurrect once again
Poem
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Lost matches
In a blink, she's sunk into those crevices you hadn't seen
No dear, do not hold up your hands in despair, for we knew you're helpless in the abyss that you're stuck in.
It's dark but it'll be darker still if you were to strike that match.
Here do take this kerchief and wipe those tears as we wave goodbye to those lips that will remain a shadow of her clan.
You really shouldn't be running after her.
No dear, do not hold up your hands in despair, for we knew you're helpless in the abyss that you're stuck in.
It's dark but it'll be darker still if you were to strike that match.
Here do take this kerchief and wipe those tears as we wave goodbye to those lips that will remain a shadow of her clan.
You really shouldn't be running after her.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
A is for ..........
She liked how the unbiased arms glided smoothly across her nooks and corners. Soft, warm and so refreshing.
Hot showers were like unconditional lovers ( or is it blinded lovers? She couldn't decide).
They seeped into every imperfection, every flattering feature and those forgetful parts that fetishists seemed to remember (for the knowledge one learns in a Freudian course must of course never be forgotten, if it ever canbe easy to not notice 3rd degree burns on your own body) .
She let the torrents of water oil her with their purity (that comes with chlorine you didn't ask for). But as the droplets clustered on her skin, as she dried them off, she remembered the hour-glass figure which didn't exist, if it ever did for anyone except Barbie.
It wasn't a lack of self-esteem. Hardly.
It was Annoyance.
Because the bevy of ______ girls had arrived to force down some of their 'advice' amidst courtesy and vulnerability that confused her.
But it shouldn't of course.
Insecurity comes in many packages.
Hot showers were like unconditional lovers ( or is it blinded lovers? She couldn't decide).
They seeped into every imperfection, every flattering feature and those forgetful parts that fetishists seemed to remember (for the knowledge one learns in a Freudian course must of course never be forgotten, if it ever canbe easy to not notice 3rd degree burns on your own body) .
She let the torrents of water oil her with their purity (that comes with chlorine you didn't ask for). But as the droplets clustered on her skin, as she dried them off, she remembered the hour-glass figure which didn't exist, if it ever did for anyone except Barbie.
It wasn't a lack of self-esteem. Hardly.
It was Annoyance.
Because the bevy of ______ girls had arrived to force down some of their 'advice' amidst courtesy and vulnerability that confused her.
But it shouldn't of course.
Insecurity comes in many packages.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
"Nazron ke teer mein"
These songs I hear-they're so young. I feel their dreams. I can catch whiffs of their hopes.
But we won't have that. Because we're busy living out what a cruel author had in mind.
Who'll make me ask myself one day, if losing all this was worth it?
And I already feel the doubt creep in.
The power, the freshness of youth. My skin tingles as these songs brush past and dance in the air around me. The young man's brazen deep, careless, loud, hollering note. I like it in a way you won't understand.
And I won't tell either.
Yes there is such a longing in these songs.
But we won't have that. Because we're busy living out what a cruel author had in mind.
Who'll make me ask myself one day, if losing all this was worth it?
And I already feel the doubt creep in.
The power, the freshness of youth. My skin tingles as these songs brush past and dance in the air around me. The young man's brazen deep, careless, loud, hollering note. I like it in a way you won't understand.
And I won't tell either.
Yes there is such a longing in these songs.
It's mine you know.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Just a fruit?
She looked at the fresh mangoes with unease. It had been 3 years- maybe she wasn't ready.
She picked an uncut piece and looked at it carefully.
You see, she had never known the names of the different varieties but she could tell them apart by their looks. This one's reddish tinge had not been native to that once-beloved-backyard.
So it seemed safe. Safe to have one that wouldn't ever taste like those did.
And that was fine.
Because they never will.
She picked an uncut piece and looked at it carefully.
You see, she had never known the names of the different varieties but she could tell them apart by their looks. This one's reddish tinge had not been native to that once-beloved-backyard.
So it seemed safe. Safe to have one that wouldn't ever taste like those did.
And that was fine.
Because they never will.
Return
I'm my past, present and future.I'm never only one but probably all at most times.
So my space was bound to get crowded. And it did.
But it's been tidied up again, the skeletons have been brushed back into the attic for closets are no longer private.
So I'm back.
So my space was bound to get crowded. And it did.
But it's been tidied up again, the skeletons have been brushed back into the attic for closets are no longer private.
So I'm back.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
An end to blogging
I won't be blogging for a while. Or orkutting . I can't say if I will reply to emails or comments right now but I will- eventually. I might be online on MSN but I can't guarantee there will be a conversation and I hope you'll understand, my friends.
This may last only a few days, but I can't say it won't be any more or less.
But for now, I'm just looking for some air, devoid of memories, wishes, hopes, life and me.
This may last only a few days, but I can't say it won't be any more or less.
But for now, I'm just looking for some air, devoid of memories, wishes, hopes, life and me.
When Strangers Dance
Oh let's bow
a friendly stranger
'twas a delight
a friendly stranger
'twas a delight
You and I
We floated on
Uncaring free kite
You and I
A light journey
We'd prophesied
Oh no we musn't
stagnate a second
Lest the flames alight
You and I
Know their eyes shall remain
jealousy-tinged
You and I
We've twirled back
back to a bend
Oh we'll meet
meet yet again
for such is this parting
You and I
We'll twinkle our eyes
We'll say a greeting
You and I
We'll forget names
despite cards we're exchanging
Oh it was to be
For such are
chance meetings
You and I
Our dance shall
Shall remain unbeaten
You and I
Our dance had to
Had to find this end
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Who am I?
Adjectives surprise me.
Can a few alphabets summarize who we are? I don't think so.
So ticking those boxes in one of those personality tests/quizzes seems pointless. We want to know how to define ourself. Choose the precise words and yet.
Yet, we're all contradictions of ourselves at some point of time. And these adjectives are too small, too meagre to wrap our paradoxes within themselves. Adjectives are like black and white. Choose one. But we're grey, you and me.
Because none of us are any adjective in its absolute sense at all given times of our existence.
Can a few alphabets summarize who we are? I don't think so.
So ticking those boxes in one of those personality tests/quizzes seems pointless. We want to know how to define ourself. Choose the precise words and yet.
Yet, we're all contradictions of ourselves at some point of time. And these adjectives are too small, too meagre to wrap our paradoxes within themselves. Adjectives are like black and white. Choose one. But we're grey, you and me.
Because none of us are any adjective in its absolute sense at all given times of our existence.
Edging towards the finish line
Her supply of paper is getting over. The ink has started to dry.
Soon her words will be empty impressions on paper. But she's not worried.
She had known the inevitable.
Soon her words will be empty impressions on paper. But she's not worried.
She had known the inevitable.
Friday, April 14, 2006
Trash can
She had been running out of diskspace and the RAM couldn't have supported her anymore at that rate.
"Sometimes we should also purge our unhappiness", she thought and hit "Delete" several times over the last hour.
"Sometimes we should also purge our unhappiness", she thought and hit "Delete" several times over the last hour.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Snipped
Snip Snip Snip
Our delicate red threads
They recklessly cut and pick
Like wrists without kalava*
Faith didn't cease
To tie us together
Cotton strings we didn't need
Said my mind
In my mistaken thought
Now you pass me by
Like strangers we always were
As They wanted us to be
But there was a time, loved one
When you and me
were more than just
forgotten blood
*kalava= thin red thread tied on the wrist of the right hand after the performance of a havan, prayers said beside a Hindu sacrificial fire, for all those present
Poem
Our delicate red threads
They recklessly cut and pick
Like wrists without kalava*
Faith didn't cease
To tie us together
Cotton strings we didn't need
Said my mind
In my mistaken thought
Now you pass me by
Like strangers we always were
As They wanted us to be
But there was a time, loved one
When you and me
were more than just
forgotten blood
*kalava= thin red thread tied on the wrist of the right hand after the performance of a havan, prayers said beside a Hindu sacrificial fire, for all those present
Poem
Saturday, April 08, 2006
She's neither
She knew that it didn't matter how many pages, drafts or posts she wrote, she could never be a memorable writer. Or even a writer.
But then again, she had never aspired to be either.
Like the consolation prizes given to the other children in the numerous talent contests where she had collected her trophies and ribbon wrapped first prizes.
But those trophies have been lost, misplaced or forgotten in some carton in the basement. A few sit dusty in a higher corner of her closet. And she'd done what she should have.
She had stepped down a few years ago, like an aged local beauty queen who knew it was time to hand over the crown.
And now she humbly stands in line to take away her consolation prize for her 'writing'.
A peace of mind.
But then again, she had never aspired to be either.
Like the consolation prizes given to the other children in the numerous talent contests where she had collected her trophies and ribbon wrapped first prizes.
But those trophies have been lost, misplaced or forgotten in some carton in the basement. A few sit dusty in a higher corner of her closet. And she'd done what she should have.
She had stepped down a few years ago, like an aged local beauty queen who knew it was time to hand over the crown.
And now she humbly stands in line to take away her consolation prize for her 'writing'.
A peace of mind.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Mehendi Memories- Part 4
- Play music to go along with this post. Preferably wait until the vocals begin-
Story so far: In the backdrop of a wedding ceremony, a young woman becomes immersed in the memories of the man she had fallen in love with and had met as a 7 year old girl in her courtyard as her family prepared for the wedding of her Mama.
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The leaves swirled gently to the ground where a girl eyes had shone with delight as her love had twirled her. Where they had learnt ballroom dancing as the 2-in-1 played cassettes from a time that had been forgotten.
In the silence of being 6 corn fields away from civilization.
Where they met up during holidays- the long summer break, the Navratri-Diwali long break. When he'd return from the City where he studied engineering- only to join the army after his graduation.
It was his duty he'd said after he'd returned from the banks of Ganga. And his mother had agreed. For the Rajput blood ran strongly in her blood too as it had in her husband's.
She hadn't protested. She hadn't known he'd head to the border. Along the lines of those mountains with their unforgiving weather and warm people. Where his father had died as he had led his unit courageously.
And it was from the border, he'd written to her. Lajjo, her naoon*, had told her that she had seen his mother prepare the Shagun** two sunsets before. She knew he was coming to ask for her hand.
So it was there, where the leaves spun gently through the air, to meet their Fate gracefully, as they kissed the ground, under the tree where they'd danced, and she'd smiled shyly each time he'd read out his passionate poems to her.
Where she had boldly, without a thought, pulled his hands to her waist and taught him to dance and since spent many evenings dancing slowly to the soft music.
Where he'd untie her long silky brown hair and watch it cascade around her shoulders down way below her waist.
Where she'd looked into his eyes and said she wasn't going to wait for him to do it .And then had kissed him.
Under this tree, 6 corn fields away from their havelis, where they had laughed, cried, studied,read,danced and sang. Dreamt,kissed and loved.
It was here where she had sat waiting. For him.
*naoon= a term used in parts of Uttar Pradesh to refer to ladies employed to wash the hair of ladies from affluent families. Naoons, until 2 generations ago, worked mostly for Zamindari families where long hair were the pride of the ladies of the house and are rarely found in big cities today but you might find one in the smaller, less Westernized affluent parts of the state.
**Shagun= Jewellery and bridal sarees [ for the Bride], sweets, five types of fruits and presents for the family of the Bride presented by the Groom's family before or on the day of the engagement. Exact ritual may vary in Hindu families and is usually practiced by Hindus of North Indian origin. The equivalent of this for the Groom is the shagun from the bride's family during the Tilak ceremoney with presents etc. for the groom's family and groom of course.
Shagun can be summarized as token presents exchanged by the two families once the alliance has been decided upon.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Ek the Hum........
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Tumne poochna nahin jaan, humara reading week kaisa raha?
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Naz and Rimi dragged her to the party. “Just put on anything in black, it’ll do”, they said to her protests of not having anything to wear.
She sighed as the car swerved into the driveway of a swanky glittering party. This really wasn’t her kind of place.
Loud, noisy and crowded. Oh the crowds, she thought and winced inwardly. Something about crowds made her wish she had a burqa to cloak herself in and fade into the crowd.
What a shame she wasn’t born with a shell- she could certainly use one now. Ah well.
It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy music or dancing. She did- dancing gave her a certain thrill.
A high.
Yes, certainly a high. Where the crowds blur, the people became a background painting and the music becomes her blood.
The rhythms to which her heart pumps.
No it wasn’t that , she loved dancing. Just not with a mansion full of people.
But she didn’t feel like protesting- any further. Naz could be like that and with Rimi, she became their favourite victim. She let them- childhood friendship tends to bring soft corners like that.
So there she stood, anxious for the night to be over. They just didn’t understand, girls like her didn’t end up getting hooked at places like these.
Coffeeshops, bookstores [Amidst musty books collecting dust. Such a romantic setting. We could even have dust blow into our faces for added drama, she thought not very seriously in case dear readers mistake our protagonist for a cheesy book-loving nerd], heck even weddings [But only at those that didn’t involve nosey uncles, matchmaker-wannabe aunties and the groom’s geeky friends. Ok so maybe weddings were only good for new lehengas, mehendi, tones of good Indian food, sangeet and of course, the fun picking on true bhaiyya log*]. But here? Naz was being very optimistic. Very.
“Madam do you want to hurry up? I can’t have Sunny holding the door for us forever you know?”, said Naz blowing a kiss to the handsome [and freshly showered, mmm Adidas] and of course, tall [We can't ditch cliches completely now can we? Outgoing, beautiful girl must land up with the tall handsome man]young man and incidentally, boyfriend.
*bhaiyya log = affectionate term for UPite men. But the writer also thinks of said bhaiyya log as not brothers [unless she ties a rakhi for them, of course] but as your simpleton soft spoken, usually shy but smart men. You do not have to agree, that is how the writer sees fit for this story, so that is how it’ll be .
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To be continued…………….. [if readers express a desire in reading what could be many many parts to this story].
Ok I really should study, I’ve spent 8 minutes and 47 seconds writing this as it is and I have an exam in 11 hours .
Tumne poochna nahin jaan, humara reading week kaisa raha?
--------
-----------------
Naz and Rimi dragged her to the party. “Just put on anything in black, it’ll do”, they said to her protests of not having anything to wear.
She sighed as the car swerved into the driveway of a swanky glittering party. This really wasn’t her kind of place.
Loud, noisy and crowded. Oh the crowds, she thought and winced inwardly. Something about crowds made her wish she had a burqa to cloak herself in and fade into the crowd.
What a shame she wasn’t born with a shell- she could certainly use one now. Ah well.
It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy music or dancing. She did- dancing gave her a certain thrill.
A high.
Yes, certainly a high. Where the crowds blur, the people became a background painting and the music becomes her blood.
The rhythms to which her heart pumps.
No it wasn’t that , she loved dancing. Just not with a mansion full of people.
But she didn’t feel like protesting- any further. Naz could be like that and with Rimi, she became their favourite victim. She let them- childhood friendship tends to bring soft corners like that.
So there she stood, anxious for the night to be over. They just didn’t understand, girls like her didn’t end up getting hooked at places like these.
Coffeeshops, bookstores [Amidst musty books collecting dust. Such a romantic setting. We could even have dust blow into our faces for added drama, she thought not very seriously in case dear readers mistake our protagonist for a cheesy book-loving nerd], heck even weddings [But only at those that didn’t involve nosey uncles, matchmaker-wannabe aunties and the groom’s geeky friends. Ok so maybe weddings were only good for new lehengas, mehendi, tones of good Indian food, sangeet and of course, the fun picking on true bhaiyya log*]. But here? Naz was being very optimistic. Very.
“Madam do you want to hurry up? I can’t have Sunny holding the door for us forever you know?”, said Naz blowing a kiss to the handsome [and freshly showered, mmm Adidas] and of course, tall [We can't ditch cliches completely now can we? Outgoing, beautiful girl must land up with the tall handsome man]young man and incidentally, boyfriend.
*bhaiyya log = affectionate term for UPite men. But the writer also thinks of said bhaiyya log as not brothers [unless she ties a rakhi for them, of course] but as your simpleton soft spoken, usually shy but smart men. You do not have to agree, that is how the writer sees fit for this story, so that is how it’ll be .
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
To be continued…………….. [if readers express a desire in reading what could be many many parts to this story].
Ok I really should study, I’ve spent 8 minutes and 47 seconds writing this as it is and I have an exam in 11 hours .
Monday, March 20, 2006
Beware
I feel my mind contort, as my lungs let this seep into my blood. I feel my histamines kick in and I search franctically for my inhalers. I gasp for O2 that can't seem to penetrate this envelope of what you have spread, while my body convulses inwardly at this silent attack.
And I slowly walk away from my friend.
You speak, unaware of how your words diffuse into the air, thicken it with irrationality and cloud out the light of reason.
Like second-hand smoke, it sickens me the longer I inhale it without ever having converted to your blinded cult. This filthy smoke of which your words reek of. That my body fights against as my mind protests as you spread it recklessly around me.
As you morph into a preaching fool, I think to myself, "Beware of the zeal of a fresh convert".
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