Haiku 100- It's different

She opened her new black leather journal. A fresh pad of lined paper gleamed with chemical clarity. She stared at her unmoving hand . When the lanky headboy had done it, it had hurt. A lot. She took to the track field while he busied himself spreading vicious untruths.

She had run back to the track field that morning. The red clay lay clean like blackboard on first day of school. The white lines stretched all around. In the distance lay the 200 m mark. She began to sob on her first step.

Then she'd only felt broken. Now she was.

55-First

She pulled up her black halter before stepping out from the black 350i. Could he tell this was her first visit? She collected herself and began walking.

Past the bouncers, she took in the sight before her. It was everything she expected. Sans the layers of smoke.
She began to fiddle nervously with her mangalsutra.

I'd rather let Karma weigh their deeds if I were you.

Too late

I cried as I saw the boy's photos.

I saw him with a goofy grin. I saw his pictures from the night he won the bhangra contest.
I saw him with ten different bottles of beer, whiskey and soda. Molson's, Blue Label and Cola. Never in a drunken stupor.

I saw him at Indian formals. 15 different silk ties.
I saw his eyes were wide set, large and thickly fringed. That they always laughed. I saw he went to the mandir each weekend. I saw he believed in one god.

I saw him with his iphone. Vacationing through the Caribbean. Posing in his track pants and grey boxers with a bare chest.
I saw him with his bike. That he died on.

I saw his blood on the asphalt. His motorcycle under the '97 chevy. The yellow tape. His 700 friends who mourned.

We'd never met. Now we never could.

I felt his cologne when he stood in his jeans freshly showered. I heard their laughs when someone had clicked as the boys hoisted him up on their shoulders. I felt the girls' heartbeats rise as he danced wearing his silk tie. I felt the sun's glare as he squinted and his face looked softly kind. I felt the crisp morning he stood outside his law school.

That was you. That was Him too.

I cried over the photos I'd never see.
I cried for the stranger I could never befriend.
I cried because it wasn't part of the plan.
I cried for the friendships it broke.

I cried.
Because you couldn't.

Gone

Whenever the house of cards collapses there is time to write.

To fill the air with words where rooms with neatly laid desires lay in bed sleeping contently for the morning would soon come to awaken them.

Then the cards quickly flew through the air. Whistling by like lost feathers from a bird's hind.

When your homes burned in an arsonist's fire it left behind cinders for you to clench in your tensed fist.

All there is here is air.

Air in the wind. That blew an hour ago.
And made her love winter.

Now there's just the winter and the air.
But nothing else to hold her love.

One and only

May you continue to bring happiness into the lives of your beloved family and your countless friends *touchwood*
May you continue to touch the lives of countless strangers for whom you give so selflessly.

May you claim the success, the glory and the prosperity which is righfully yours. May you find your year ahead blessed with closer relationships, peace and contentment.

May the past not linger into your future. May God let you shake it away and walk unburdened into the future.

May you find the year and many many many more ahead overflowing with happiness and the fulfillment of your dreams.

Happy Birthday fatso!

3 years without

There is so much that remains to be asked. To be heard. To be shared.

Your agony haunts me. I need new memories.

It's all unfair.

Come back. Please.

We never said goodbye.

Reason for leave

The pen writes smoothly only when the ink is filled with the waters of your heart.

Words don't come easily

She lay motionless in the dark room. Outside the winds wailed like a crowd of banshees and clobbered the large window panes. It pushed people off the sidewalks into their secluded large homes and gas fireplaces. The trees bent helplessly and quaked as their delicate quivering branches were raped off their leaves.

The popcorn ceiling turned unexpectedly high into the slant of the roof. It felt too big inside and she too insignificant.

A mouse stood atop a slinky, in the trademark red and black of Disney. It was a purchase from the shops that lined the two confusing concentric circles of a busy marketplace. It had been insisted and she'd tried to refuse in her soft voice. Then she smiled shyly when it was placed in her hand outside the Disney store. Maybe they'd gone on to purchase some books later but she didn't remember anymore. It had been too long.

She sighed.

Some pictures had been lost, as though trying to hasten the erasure of memories. Like ink fading out on pieces of paper crackling with the traces of dried tears. The loss threatened to let those moments be relived only in the ache with which they were remembered.

She closed her eyes and a large tear slowly slid softly down her high cheekbones and fell upon the top of her clavicle. It eased into a nook and lay cold upon her feverish body.

She cuddled into a ball like a foetus searching for warmth and lay still again.

The first anniversary

The aqua blue walls mocked her ability to make wise decisions. The disarray had become a new habit she couldn't live with. It was easier to live elsewhere.

She stood to inspect what had been taken out of cardboard boxes and sighed. The piles stood messily beside the carton. She had wanted to avoid opening them till she had time. Or had 'cleared a little space in the corners of her mind'.

She had no inclination to tackle the piles and organize them where they belonged. Nothing belonged anywhere. She had no strength left to make the room more comfortable for her to stay in. The walls weren't those that she had to step out of. The mess was an inhuman part of her existence. It existed- on her bed or her closet, what did it matter?

She started to walk away and then froze near the enormous towering mirror. A tiny bundle of black and grey stared at her.

She remembered rummaging through the series of futuristic organized clear plastic boxes without any luck. Had she really tried then? Maybe not but she couldn't have tried any harder anyway. She had been numb with how closely she could feel death.

She had run so far away. There was nothing left to run from anymore.

The webcam looked back at her scornfully and she forced herself to turn away.

I wish to sprawl out on a white deck chair by the rooftop pool. Of luminous blues rippling softly with the scarce lazy breeze.

And close my eyes as my skin feels like it is expanding under the glare of the sun. Then dream of soft poems of why the summer delights me to a slight tingle in my toes.

But sometimes there are no words because what is, is just as it is.
And that's really, that.

When Happy comes back to sit not on your head nor your lips.
But to sit in the pit of your stomach, you know...
You know that the songs that you sing are now from the bottom of your stomach and not throat.

And your songs are all happy too.

Found

Her brown hair a mess of waves framing her face and hunched shoulders.
A light feeling makes her giddy in stomach and tingles down to her toes.

Her pencil pauses as she smiles at the familiar rush of delightful excitement.

It may not be the same as the night of limelight at terraced gardens. Of a dance of jumps, linked arms and waists wrapped in red satin sashes.

Or of the embarrassment at the rehearsals on the cool tiled floors near the World Trade Centre [of 40 odd storeys] .

Her heart rolled on the waves of the sea in anticipation.
It will not be the same but it'll be enchanting.
All over Again.

Undeniable

Quietly, the phone is placed on the darkly stained pinewood desk.

There's a sudden calm in the air, even as her hands shake with the tremors within.

A silent acceptance of the turn of events. Of her doing. Of another large reservoir of 'what ifs' to carry around for her lifetime. Of helplessness.
A quick glance to the dull gold book cover etched with a peaceful face holdng up a flute.

And somewhere the music doesn't play but the words stream in as easily as the light through the glass windows.

" We were meant to live for so much more. Have we lost ourselves?"

Our days with Hazel

Floor to high ceiling glass panelled windows encased in a room of three quarters wooden panels in the clean lines of contemporary design.

Franctic studying alternates with exchange of whispers of childhood chance encounters in the hallways and buses [the joys of school buses]. Of innocence in reasons and logic. Combined laughter after sudden bouts of [one-sided] embarrassment hidden behind long locks of dark brown hair.

Of sticky notes organizing our anxiety of weeks to come [in moss green, mango ice cream orange, raspberry pink and mauve- the delights of Post It !].

Highlighters, pencil cases, binders, book-bags cellphones. The whiteboard still the most favoured, and fun, study aide.

Wrappers of food brought in discreetly. Hand lotions on feet, winter clothes to defend against the Evil of the library.

So much to remember so much to miss.

But the men of the kingdoms await or so the wish granting cow says.
So if you shall excuse me.

My summer is still booked and I'm feeling as happy as it is May.

I wish you could hear what I hear.

Even if you aren't here, I shall think of you. I know you would feel the song if you'd let yourself.
Hear how youthful it makes you feel - because you are.

There's so much for you out there not because it is for everyone. But because your lines are special, as I've always known. As all those who could read them, always knew.

There's all this for you to conquer, sit atop with a touch of obnoxiousness. That we all would forget when you made us laugh heartily.

Remember- I am the brat.

Not you.

Wet grey stone steps flanked by overflowing pots of red flowers swayed with the gentle wind. The corners of her eyes creased with a smile at this sight.

She couldn't help but feel happy with such a simple picture postcard perfect sight that she didn't have to travel out of the country for.
She thought of what a luxury it was to vacation so often.

She could write a coffee-table book on what makes summer perfect. Then shook her head laughing inwardly at her idea.

She’d probably be the only one to read it anyway.

The fizz is dying out in the air in the coke can. It rapidly rises to the surface. Then dies echoing in the half-empty aluminium can.

I hope I regain the strength to crush these cans to flat sheets of metal as they say you should for recycling. If it is only a myth, then I've been had and publically so. Except this isn't a public space frequent by public.
I shall live without being disgraced. Ha!

Drama Queen offered to save me some barbequed popcorn I believe and frankly? I didn't know the likes of these existed. Nor will I ever know now since the only BBQ of my lifetime [and all my friends including Drama Queen] is now slowly passing on an island that you can skip to from end to end.
And if I'm blogging while it is happening, clearly, I didn't go.

I wish to delight in writing about obscure references to life through one [Trademarked] ME perspective but it is such a cheerfully sunny day.
That makes you want to take a nap at 9:30 am.

How can anyone not be affectionate with Summer?

Cruel Summer

I wish my mind was preoccupied with summer sales. But no keen interest was ever taken in adding clothing to the closet as a function of hobby or summer.

There is a big fat book to be balanced on my head and I must learn to walk with it gracefully. But I stumble and poise is out of the question much like piano lessons are to the street-squatter.

Why isn't summer an absolute of warmth, sunshine and fun?
Of summer holidays without summer schools, of carefree runs across the lawn dotted with potted plants along its circumference.
Of the pleasure the banging of the 'jaali' doors gave in quiet afternoons that put everyone to sleep.

But none of this is really what I wish to say.
My journal requires my brutal honesty. Mute requires me to be evasive, unnaturally unemotional.

I wish to be neither.

Summer can be difficult too sometimes.

Neat

Is there something wrong with someone if they make separate notebooks/journals for mundane things like 'daily to do list' or 'why my life is more interesting than yours'?

I suppose I'm only asking to dispell this nagging doubt that this may be a problem that manifests into something that leads people to collect garbage because their liking for owning different kinds of stationery blossomed into owning different kinds of garbage.

You know the kind of people whose husband/children/siblings call on the reality shows about throwing away your clutter and creating space in your house to make yourself a happier person. Which is simple logic because you are happier if the former stops nagging you about all the junk you refuse to throw.

Which is a problem because I wanted to be the one who makes a living out of telling people to throw away their stuff and goes crazy with shelves, hooks, hangers, cane baskets, post-it notes in all sizes colours and functions, ribbon stands, coat racks, shoe racks, handbag organizers and all such lovelies to super-organize someone else's closet.

And breathe happily because an organized closet makes the world a much more peaceful place.

Short Story: Mimi and her

"You missed out", she said without looking away from the window she was staring out from.

"And that would be because?", said Mimi as she collapsed on the day bed.

" It rained endlessly with wild sharp splashes against the windows.

The clouds grumbled and steadily moved in their large bulky selves. Over our picturesque little neighbourhood perched upon a hill, above the rest of the city.

It felt like we're an isolated line of few houses. An island of people in the midst of a vast uninhabited land, the sole reciever of the monstrous clouds' thundering tempers."

"Mmm. It was a lovely afternoon."

"But I loved the slate colour that spread into a greyish blue with a light metallic sheen. A colour that looks gorgeous on silk curtains."

"Try it for your new room then?
But that isn't what this is about is it?"

"It is so difficult to step out of circles"

"Nature likes to be cyclical"

"Sometimes it is a punishment"

"Which is why you're stepping out of it"

"I don't wish to"

"You know it would be so much more easier if we weren't a higher order of species with complex stimulations in our brains that have the capacity to act beyond our natural instincts and survival.

Where the meaning of happiness and contentment isn't in a good kill or meal, isn't in a roof above our heads when the weather becomes unfriendly or in mating and being able to pass on your genes. Where they become as complex as our brains and the neural stimulations within them, the hormones that go through crazy paths to make us feel the way we do."

"And yet, it is us who can sit down to appreciate a natural recurring phenomenon of rain. Maybe being complex isn't so bad"

"You're joking right?"

A light sigh escapes her lips.
Her eyes look out as the drooping sun shines a spectrum of heavy yellow onto her face. The colours illuminating the brown of her dark eyes.

"These turn the same colours every year around the same time Mimi. The winds, the rains. The snowfall, the storms. Spring, autumn and monsoons. It happens every year much in the same way with little variations.

Yet they all come back to see our open arms. Maybe not the tornadoes and hurricanes. Or monster amounts of snow to be shovelled off the driveway in the chill of minus 35 at 6am before a final exam.

But maybe we do have to be complex to appreciate what is cyclical, what returns every year."

" Well, the goldfishes also delight in the 'newness' of the world they keep learning every 4th second", Mimi said making a face at her.

She throws back her head to laugh even if it wasn't as funny. " I don't feel like I've stepped out of the circle", she said as the creases of her smile left her face, laugh lines quietening down.

"Must you? You don't wish to afterall"

"Happiness is much too complex to be found with simply following this wish."

"Your own wish."

"Yes my own wish. But not my only wish"

"You just contradicted the point I made with an air of importance", Mimi said making a face again.

"Let's treat my definition of happiness as an outlier then. No such thing as 100% probability anyway."

"But one drawback is enough to nullify a theory in sociology!"

"That would not be counted as sociology Mimi!!"

"If this was a story, this would be the point the readers would mentally chalk me down as a Valley Girl"

"No they wouldn't.", she said laughing easily now.
"An excerpt is rarely informative enough. Besides, everyone is entitled to have their own blond moments."

"I'm grateful I was too Indian to consider Philosophy as a field of study in university.
We'd have failed miserably. And then we wouldn't even be good enough to be married"

"Well we're a bit late for that. We no longer get an education in order to be married well."

"Oh right. I had the wrong South Asian population in mind. My bad."

"You're awful!", she said laughing loudly.
"That's yet another reason to not be called 'desi' ", she said playfully carrying in on Mimi's thought.

"Let's not begin on that. It gets me riled up for no reason."

"Yeah let's not. It was a lovely afternoon.
For now, that's enough."

Even if our characters can't philosophize..

It is a queer time.
Had it been a musical, it might have been the moment Julie Andrews breaks into a comforting song about "brown paper packages tied up with strings".

It is difficult- to wish to be honest with yourself and yet not be vulnerable to the eye of the reader. It is alarmingly difficult to write this and work the nerve to not censor or delete this thought.

But it's ok to be human sometimes.
Even for Mute.

Return of a favourite item on the menu

As is usually the case with a blog post, it is an unearthly hour in this part of the world.
The back is whining and not being paid attention to only makes it scream. It's a bit unbearable and shall be shushed up soon.

But right now, a cool breeze blows bringing relief into the night of a hot humid day. We're not very far from being Delhi right now (of course I am exaggerating ).

Iit makes me wish for a walk down to the village for a bite of Osmow's shawarma.

A spicy bite and many more seated on a wooden bench near the square.
Where the children, youth and adults congregate with waffle cones and cups of homemade ice cream dribbling onto the huge slabs of concrete that make the sidewalk a strange assortment of sweet smelling thread paint designs that makes summer longed for.

It makes me wish for the wind to gently wrap its fingers around my hair while we spend another night not noticing the stars as I let my head relax and eyes close briefly taking meditative long breaths.

It is difficult sometimes, to notice stars, when you're not on the 26th floor of a highrise facing the lake which hogs your daytime view as it changes into all the shades of blue on Benjamin Moore paint cards.
To not have the luminous night sky unfold in front of your solarium and transport you to the view from a Star Trek enterprise. The view of a vastness of the universe you'd never known to have existed. That glitters shyly with a smattering of stars as it hides many exciting worlds inside .

I miss feeling that awe sometimes.

Did I tell you of the many months we spend not seeing the stars?
Sometimes because we can't.
Sometimes because we've forgotten to notice it.
How odd it must sound. It sounds foreign as I write it but maybe that too will change.

but when it changes, will I have the courage to stand boldly in front of the tall bay windows that envelope the room?

To tell the moon our romance was over several transatlantic flights ago. For even if he was near, his glory is not his own.
The stars soothe my eyes still and maybe we can renew our affair this fall.

I am hopeful.

Your eyes sparkle while your face looks soft with a shy smile.
The french beard suits you.

You look relaxed stretched out like so.
This new space seems to have been grown for you.

A brief pause as I wonder if I had been wrong about you.

A shake of head, a dull thud within.
Memories don't die like that.

No. We couldn't have been friends afterall.

55 fiction returns: Insomnia

Huddled in a corner - like the walls have her mother’s arms- until sunrise.

“2 hours then the lamp goes off. Sleep can settle on fraught nerves.”

The comfort of daylight.

Lawns mowed, children running through water sprinklers, cars honking , joggers gulping water with loud gasps.

When their bustling ways can drown out other voices.


originally written on: 29.07.2006

Because I want to

I feel like writing.

I don't know if it was the movie that left me smiling.

Or the journal whose pages are nearly used up and my intention to not wait until the last few run out. I think its time is up to descend up in the heavens that lies in the corner of my closet in a vaguely french-themed wine and cheese against a lemon background shoe-box [Just in case you were wondering what heaven might look like]

I have two to choose from.

There is one that is fit for someone with oodles of wisdom, who wouldn't need to tear pages out occasionally, who wouldn't need a spiral-binding. But I like spiral bindings very much. I usually don't tear pages out but maybe I should let myself have the freedom to do so just in case, no? And maybe I'll choose them long after I have some wisdom [or atleast enough to know I don't need a blog post for an excuse to waste 4 pages to start scribbling in some new stationary!]

I'm choosing the one that will let me craft its cover to my liking. I want to see where it goes. If it is too bad, I will just white-paper it and pretend the disaster underneath didn't happen.
And start all over, maybe with a template from Martha Stewart Living.

I feel like writing. Again.

Maybe all there is. Is this summer's symphony.

Beautiful as the day

It is a quiet afternoon around this bend.

The roads glistens with the white glare of the over-zealous sun to swiftly set the summer ablaze.
Even the songbirds snore at this hour of cocoon-like warmth.

The air molecules expand, as full as birthday balloons, floating uncomfortably outside.

The white bay window frames the slight quivers of the fresh green leaves. Lying on a fainting couch, cool in the shadows, away from the slanted interferences of the sun.

A glass of khas sharbat glistening with beads of water condensing on the outside placed atop the dainty carved sheesham stool.

For a solitary afternoon, to lie in abandon across the white textured French upholstery of the couch. An unlimited supply of cold glasses of sherbet with Strauss interspersed with dozing off.

Maybe I too should dig in a sandpit for a grumpy sand-fairy.
I might find my own Psammead.

How I found my dream home

She took a turn and landed onto the hidden driveway of an opulent house.

The place had become chaotic without a visible mess. Was it the quiet of the now correctly aligned pieces? Or was it that the rearrangement couldn't undo the atmosphere?

It was May already and spring cleaning was long past. Then what were these sticky little cobwebs doing looming about where it wasn't their business to do so?

Past the well lit, freshly painted sprawl of the open concept main floor. A safe distance away from the noxious solarium, the cobwebs clung with might.

Someone had flung them here when she wasn't looking. The rascal, she thought of the unseen stranger.

What if her trusted confidante had false information after all? She hadn't seen the papers as yet so who knew if what the astrologer had said was indeed true or not.

But the day was still young. Very young actually.
She had enough time to drive to what may be the right location. Where the promised estate of magnificence awaited her.

She'd spent far too much time staring at the distinguished mansion of magnolia and sinister calm air. So she shrugged her shoulders and made a quick exit.

It may be a wild goose chase, she thought slightly wincing at the cliche, but she'd rather have the excitement of scratching out her bingo-card than walk into the unclaimed house to which nasty rumours clung.

Afterall cobwebs are laid out for prey.

No repeat of Ariel's mistake

Sometimes when my little wooden speedboat zooms ahead smoothly, I unplug the leaks myself.

Look at the yachts bobbing by in the distance. It grows more and more distant and my boat won't stop. I can't go back and hop onto a yacht instead of this one seater.

How did I miss the party?

I hear the clinks of glass, the mixed bubbles of chatty voices and laughter. Little black dresses and sparkles around the neck.

As I look back for my last few glimpses my hair whips into waves around my face.

If the boat sinks, who knows what wonders lie beneath the inky surface waters for me to explore?

Maybe the fishes will let me float past them into their world. Maybe the seaweeds will wave and corals will colour themselves more deeply. Maybe the dolphins will circle me playfully and the orca babies will leap into the air baring their teeth in glee with the delight of my attention.

But I'm not Ariel.
Help me find the corks to plug this again.

Maybe a party will float by me right now and lasso me in.

I hope this party isn't more than the invites I sent out.

Blasphemy

"Isn't it selfish of you to turn to God everytime you're in need"

" I don't do it everytime I'm in need."

"Only when you're trying to claw your way out of the net when you see sharks circling around you baring their teeth which glint with the evil that is just their nature to consume to sustain their own livelihood."

"Uh. If they're that helpless why don't you sleep with them."

"Because...... I'm saving myself?"

"Ohh the piggybank is so full!"

"SHUT UP! You didn't answer me."

"It helps me remember the net is a cage of tough steel so the sharks won't ever reach me."

"O-h"

"Yes"

"Will you be using that in your book of successful conversion formulas?"

"Sure. Why not! Why do you ask?"

"The tribals will think you're a hoot"

"Then why aren't you laughing?"

On leave.....

A strange liberation in cutting off the strings slowly and making an exit.
Temoporarily.
Without joy.

But it was a moment where curtains were to be pulled open.
When shutters were to be closed tightly. And sunlight was to be pushed out of every molecule of air within.

You could laugh that there wasn't enough light in this musty corner to begin with.
You could point this isn't darkness.
This is pitch black.

But so what if it is so?

So what if I raise my arm and not have my own eyes be able to see it?

So what if this black darkness clings to my skin?
Long after the lights are turned back on.
Like burnt nylon that can only be separated with bidding farewell to a part of your body.

There was a passion which pushed my blood faster through the narrow vessels, squeezing past, shoving eagerly into my brain. Pushing for me to write.

A messy fight of hands moving in wild gestures.
Now it has broken up with me and left without a trace.
The numbers changed. Addresses moved.

My ex has expressed a desire to not know me again.
Maybe forever.

So let me collapse into a heap.
In this heavy velvet air.
Tense with empty strokes of hand.

A moment of silence.
To grieve.

I dream.
Of being 13.

The age where our Friend from above sprinkles copious amounts of awkwardness and uncertainity. Chocolate sprinkles over our vanilla selves.
An age so delicious on a plate of memory.

When sweetness was a natural course of life from within. Even when the world seemed all but that.

When being alive was an absurd question.
As if anyone could want not to be.

....

My words left me when I shamed them with my behaviour.
Now even when my karma finds me back they will not return.

My little babies jumped out of their nest before they grew wings.

I was too bad a mother and now they're dead. Like my feet.

I feel no inclination to blog anymore.

kim bahuna?

The template must be changed. In my defense I tried several others which didn't work once I had completed working on them.

I must also relocate my blogroll which a layout accident shoved aside. I haven't forgotten you guys [the few who read this!] but haven't found the time to manually redo the entire tedious process as yet. After exams!

Hopefully :)

Hello again

My mummy is being unwrapped.
The mistake was just noticed.


By me.

Epiphany

The sadness of mute isn't the silence. No actually the silence hasn't been factual as it has been imagined.

One can imagine silence by pretending the air didn't just resonate with words. Or tune out.

So if the silence hasn't existed, how can there be a mute?

What if I told you: The greatest tragedy is not that mute is without words. You can see it like so. But that the tragedy is Mute really likes to say it as though it is moot. And so you're fooled into thinking all is essentially moot and thus as good as mute.

What?
I was just saying: You can turn the volume back on now.
But you were making a point...?
Oh. The point?

Is Moot.

A time once existed of abundance. When 55 words seemed frugal.
But here I am. Your penniless beggar.
Walk past me now as I mouth empty air.
To remember the songs I'd once known.

A film black and white.

Where is the box of colours?

Messy bed poor house

A nightmare, so subtle

Riddle half-solved in the season of jasmine.

A trip had been taken and the passenger was unknown.

A Greek star across the sky.
A French blank expanse for a ground.

Two women got down gracefully. As phone calls went unanswered, waiting was paid no heed.

A director of Importance.
Who watched movies to further the skill of appealing to the public.
Even when sleep was scarce.
His routine he didn't skip on.
Even if phones went unanswered.
Even if wishes floated as he was too busy to catch them.
The director of Importance wouldn't let it be known of the passenger unknown.

The cluelessness further heightened.
The train was also kept a secret.

Alas! 'twas the mighty Internet age. A tapping of fingers and a delayed inspiration. Ah! Wiki-it!, thought the clueless one and chanced upon half the key.

A greek Star across the sky.
A french Blank expanse for a ground.

The answer , if you will, was caught between the lines.
The train is now known as is the ride.

We don't know which of the two won, 'tis a shame.
For this, afterall, has been our director's cruel game.

But the Director shall not tell.
For our knowledge means nothing.
To people of Importance.

A fist traces circles upon a missing heart

I used to wonder how it was done.

Night after night. A slippery limestone cradling a person. Feet in floaters.
How could someone?
An incredible a thought. For the Immature.

A distant Pajero throwing up cooling sand.
Streetlights a safe walk away.
Gleaming glass doors sliding open a relaxing whiff of dampness where the cool air hugs the humid one in slow joyous tears.

I'd told you I liked the fragrance of my earth as it cooled with the monsoon showers.
But I wanted to tell you all now, that there is another such that I like.

I'd lead you through the quick tempered asphalt.
Down the glory of camel herders.
Flanked by the modest pointed trees we drew with dangling fruits for several years.
In Social Studies class.
That we also called Lu'lu.

Then I'd show you where I found the starfish with narangi hands.
Clutching onto a dark spotted rock submerged under half my arm's depth.
And I'd tell you....
I'd wondered if it would feel like the white coral that Mummy had found.

Small beady calciate under my feet that slip and twist the small ankles into a crash of crushing pain.
But it didn't happen.
Because I skipped away.
Only a bad kid would dig their feet into black waters at night. Haina?

But that fragrance was locked and stored away like the bottles filled with coloured sand landscapes.

That was never to be shaken.
Purchased for an unknown reason.
A strange pull to those souveneirs.Without which a foreign visit would remain incomplete.
That was often bought by the tourists we looked at in detached amusement.

Sucker!

He didn't take a fancy hookah away or an Irani kaleen. He'd probably think the heritage village was real and snap a roll away too! We'd shrug our shoulders and laugh.

But it is a fragance not a delicate balance of silica submerged in colours of a fake smile. I can't place it in front of you all.
It was never meant to be put in the curio cabinet. Nor was it purchased. It was an heirloom of sorts - I was the first to recieve it.

How could someone?

Feet in floaters.
Turn the left foot and see a prominent dutiful til.

A slippery limestone cradling a person.
That I took away from Atlas.

Night after night.
Now I know.

Spring unchoked

But mostly, I desired a change in season.

So here's a breath of tulip petals strewn across the path.

Then, in a circle, I plant white hydrangeas.

Here, I gently shake pink cherry blossoms.

Now this. Where I can breathe the fresh giddy fragrance of Spring.

Into a scrunched up laughter, which will tickle my face pink.

This.Is the bed I shall now lie in.

The white gold prayer

Blow!
Gentle wind
Upon the right side
Lay a feather
on the hand you touch
Kiss the softness
of the full cheek
Lay a calm
Oh Gentle wind!
Upon the right side

Here
Let me swallow
all that brings
swirls of violence
I stand
With wide open arms
embracing the agitated winds
Be gentle wind
Oh be gentle!
Upon the right side

Here
I hold you tense
But there?
Keep your promise
Usher in tranquil
Deliver my prayers
in the breath
of your infant
Softly coo Gentle wind
Upon the right side

The sidewalk artist

She leapt one day into my path.

It was an autumn month, the chill was hard to bear. I asked her not to hurt me.

The chill was already perched on my toes and was flying in circles ready to nest there for the season. In haste, thus, I said "Whatever you want, take". And she did.

She came in a canvas of creamy white and flowing tresses. A dreamy mist that jumped into my shadow.

I'd tell the artist, whose treasured picture she jumped out of, put her away. Take her out of me. She's risen upto my neck holding it in a half nelson.

He looked sternly. Talking of one's masterpiece in a manner, like so? How dare I!

So she innocently follows me through the artist's present for me. I laugh and play with her dark cloud upon where I stand.

Oh what shame!

The artist didn't paint me.
His fine fingers to adorn his canvas with me. His long lashes for my face to sit in.

Oh the horror!

The artist didn't paint me. But he hung her upon my wall.
The angel that mocks. Her halo so golden.
Which he hung upon my wall.

"Such childishness!", you'd say.
For wasn't it you who sought him at the Art Fair? Wasn't it you who asked only for his best?
Lo behold!
His masterpiece you now hold.

"Such deception!", you'd cry.
For wasn't it you who gave her anything she'd want? In the dark alley where she'd been silent of her want ?
And thus!
She took what you gave.

In my shadow I live.
That was mugged one fine autumn day. When she soaked herself in my warm coat from Dusk.

So in my shadow I live.
Half of which.
Now isn't me.

Right kind of wrong

How old am I ?

There's a song heavy with a voice laden with nostalgia.

Like honey, it flows slowly off my tongue. It's sticky, hard to roll off, and swallow but sweet. So I let it sit on the back of my throat slowly dissolving its saccharine down my mouth.

Guess.

Funny how much it means now. This pattern, I live.

But it was a song when I was 16. Whispered to me in my dreams. And it follows me through like my unshakeable shadow.

3,2,1.

My shadow. Heavy, laden with memories. Songs, hallmark cards and a midnight blue dress.

So much to choose from to remember with this song. 365 days ending with a new year. Life sorted by crisp, brown paper wrapped new textbooks.

I won't put on the dress, the cards were thrown and the songs deleted.

Time's up.

The soft crystals of snow coated with frozen water. See how the day melted it into a shiny silk of ice.

The icicles that shiver at the wind's light caresses. This crispy night like a new page turned over. Which shall find us.

Solitary.

Come. Let's take our places.
In my cream chiffon knee length delight. In your silent black veil.

Will you look at me and sing? With your voice breezing over the sheets of pure water?

Would you slide your arms around my waist and breathe the poem you wrote for me?

Would you look at the delicate ice caves arching in their fluid beauty? From where the night shall glow in a transparent glaze of sparkle?

And pull me into your arms to a dance where our pride and ego shall claim victory?

But look.

Tis a been a night only in thought. For there comes the bright blazing ball.

Like a smooth silver magnesium ribbon meets air, so does my ice palace meet.

Tiny puddles of where princesses had once day dreamed.

For such are snowcastles in the day.

Wasn't it lovely?

*melody tiptoes softly out of reedy bagpipes and summer dawns momentarily*

" You should sing this song and come to my house"

"Do you know what it means?"

"But of course!

I can listen to your sweet voice for hours as it charms my heart beats to move faster. I can .."

" You know, even I know enough punjabi to know you fabricated 90% of that"

"Well so what! That's what it means to me"

"If you were to say it in English it would be hilarious"

"Shut up!"

"Well then. I sing this song and come?"

" No actually you won't come singing in your own baraat. But you should sing that to me when you ask me to marry you"

"What!"

"Are you saying you won't ever ask me that?"

"I'm saying asking is pointless when one knows the answer "

"Not even! Don't flatter yourself"

"I can't sing. How about a sonnet?"

"Ooooh! Would I like it?"

"You'd like it. How hard can it be to recite?"

"Recite?! You have to mean it and be miserable with the thought that you'd not written it for me first! "

"Well how about I just write one myself so that I don't have to be miserable?"

"You'd do that ?"

"I could. And?"

"Hmmm. Be original. Don't go down on one knee. Don't do a candlelight. Don't make it a diamond"

"Shouldn't I ask you out first?"

"Pfft! I'm too busy to date. I have *beep* degrees to attain"

" So you're going to leave me hanging?!"

"Don't act as if this is news for you"

"So one fine day so many months later I ask you to marry me straight up....... because I look like a fool?"

"You must be one. You forgot you have to put on your best act and suffer when you ask my parents first without my knowledge"

"Without your knowledge?"

"Didn't you say you wanted to surprise me?"

"So I'll have to ask your parents to keep it hush hush too then."

"But obviously!"

"So I have to make all the moves now?! Excuse me but I listed laziness as a hobby"

"As if I'd run behind a guy"

"Why would I!"

" Because I am too proud to do so"

" Leave that explanation for suckers. Can you even initiate a hug without melting to the ground?"

"Shut up! "

"Why would I do all this?"

"Oh because you never told me but along the way you fell for me really hard."

"I'm a free spirit!"

"Well you're supposed to say such things so that I don't catch on."

"Why wouldn't I want you to catch on to it?"

"Because you don't want to be turned down"

"But you just said you'd want me to ask you to marry me!"

"Shouldn't you fall in love with me first?"

"Exactly why, on this lovely walk along the creek on this crisp morning, are we discussing these hypothetical settings?"

"You didn't have a story to tell me so I told you one. Simple!
Now hand me all your icecream"

The cries of the cuckoos are mangled with the cacophony of the ugly native black birds.
There is an uneasiness in the ground as sequined white slippers tread softly on the clean roads of an officer’s colony.
There is a path that meanders out sans sprawling bungalows overflowing with potted plants.

it is a narrow path lined with dust laden trees. A few pieces of broken chalk lay scattered near the poor children’s scrawl. In a language she doesn’t understand.

She is but a trespassing guest.

There’s an emptiness you must fill in. Step right there. Fill the path, that goes nowhere, with your gaze. Stand right next to the scrawl.
It is near the child’s play you are missed the most.

In the hopscotch boxes faintly erased, a friend is needed. To hop together. Laugh over it all. To create a memory that remains as streaks of a smile .

But it isn’t a time to wait even if all stands here paused patiently. She walks slowly on the asphalt as it soaks in the late morning. Bends over and holds the piece of crude chalk. It feels like a clay ready to be molded, ready for its purpose.

She stares at the specks of blue inside the crumbling white. Her fingertips touch the protruding rounded edge. She leans over. The chalk lies two steps away after a momentary pause.

A bent figure straightens and adjusts the black shawl draped on the left shoulder. She walks back through the dusty path to the bougainvillea lined straight roads. She lifts open the metal gate and walks back into where she doesn’t belong.

It’s a game of pretense- we played house and pretended we belonged in the walls of pillows and roofs of freshly washed sheets.

We’re playing house a few leap years later. But it shall continue to stay alive just as well long after she has abandoned it.

And perhaps it is that. That chalked a name in the dust blown path. Two steps away from a lonely chalk.