My humble offering

Wish I could love you; give more to this affair
But my heart has been torn apart; beyond repair.
It doesn’t have any feelings to spare
You give yourself to me in totality,
Without doubt or fear, you love me unconditionally.
It’s more than romantic evenings whispering sweet nothings,
We stare at stars, and take walks in the mornings,
We share dreams and give them wings.
You love me truly, without effort, without pretense
Unable to return it, I offer you my battered soul’s shavings.

poetry in prose

All theoreticians of eroticism know when there’s no distance, there’s
no border; when there’s no border, there’s no taboo; when there’s no
taboo, there’s no transgression; and when there’s no transgression,
there’s no desire.

- Bernard-Henri Levy

How easily he has put forward the idea; without pretense or melodrama.

I am drinking in the words.

ode to the deceiving male

Kiss her on the lips
Take me around the world in ships
With her be locked at the hips
But know, she’s a momentary eclipse

With me read, write, rhyme and pun
Go to her for all the fun
Tell her she's the one
But come home to me, 'cos I mothered your son

Relive your passions within those walls
And getaway from all domestic bawls
Ignore my phone calls
As you hold her in thralls

But my love, if you’re two-faced
Don’t think I’m chaste
I'll make you happy,
and let you have your way with me.
But what happens when am alone;
You’ll never know, honey!

Dus Kahaniyan

Take any Hollywood movie, translate all the dialogues, and introduce a few item numbers in between. Of course, a lot of melodrama has to be thrown in as well, and lo and behold – you have the present day Bollywood movie. The Indian film industry (evident from its name) has become a badly cloned version of it’s more popular western counterpart. Now these directors have gone a step further, by attempting to adapt famous novels and stories. If you want to know what that resulted in, watch Ram Gopal Varma’s ‘Nishabd’, which is a classic example of such literary sacrilege (Nabokov would have surely turned in his grave).

I watched a movie called ‘Dus Kahaniyan’ a couple of days back. It’s an anthology, by a host of six directors, comprising of ten short films telling ten different original stories, and starring close to 25 different Bollywood stars. The idea seemed nice, and I was looking forward to watching it. Then again, originality is perhaps the last thing one could expect of the mongrelized and recycled world of Indian cinema. The first story itself turned out to be a horrible adaptation of one of Roald Dahl’s short stories. Needless to say, six out of the ten short films were sleazy versions of different short stories. To expect to get away with their claims of originality after stealing the entire plot and characters from famous stories, the film makers must really think their audience to be an ignorant lot. I would have let it pass if they had just drawn inspiration from some stories/ideas. They not only took the gem, but went ahead and stole the whole crown! Badly written script caused loose ends in the story to stand out, and bad direction made matters worse. On a slightly positive note, two of the stories – Rice Plate and Gubbare - were good, as the story had some substance, and the acting was also quite commendable. They were probably the only stories where it did not seem like random scenes were put together to fill in a fifteen minute slot. Half an hour into the movie, and the audience knew what to expect – all stories would have a totally unexpected and tragic ending. The script writers wanted the stories to be different, and got carried away in bringing out a twisted end at the cost of ruining the plot. On the whole, it was quite a disappointment.

The idea of putting together short stories reminds me of my theater group back in Chennai, where we used to work on a similar idea. It was so much fun, and I miss it all terribly. Anyway, if you are planning to watch the movie sometime this week, take my advice and grab a good book instead.

Love

Your eyes are the color of rain cloud,
there’s thunder in your lips;
Mischief in your gait,
and magic, at your fingertips.
The need to touch becomes stronger –
A delicious urgency
together, we move in undulant motion,
And doors of a different world open up for us.

‘I love you’, you tell me
I nod, as I bask in the cool candor of your words.
Yes, I love you, my dear
But do we mean the same when we say that?
We know it’s more than a mere primordial urge
You are special to me,
I'll give myself to you all over again, if I could.
You excite my mind, indulge my body and illumine my spirit
Evenings of poetry sipping beer, walks by the sea,
Perfect conversations without uttering a single word,
Long drives on moonstruck nights;
you permeate my life; you're a part of my soul
am haunted by the memory of your touch
most content in your arms, am enraptured as we make – that tricky word – love.

Being together forever is an illusion,
it can never survive realism
Don’t try to hold on to these moments, and lose them at that
Love me in the fierce, honest way you do
And I will love you in return.
Let not the shadows of the outside world fall on us
And darken the brightly lit recesses of our hearts.
Let not the practicality of everyday lives eat into our togetherness,
but the uncertainty of tomorrow weave us closer today.

Home

A whole week in Kerala turned out to be exactly what my depressed soul needed. The place seems to be more beautiful every time I see it. Usually I am a bundle of nerves when am heading home, because I have to deal with an army of uncles, aunts, cousins, their children, and maybe even their in-laws. But this time around, I was heading for my hometown - Chengannur - the beautiful city along the river Pampa. It's a very special place, and I could deal with anything, even my extended frenetic family, to be there.

Although the journey is quite long, I took the train home. The inquisitive co-passengers, stinking toilets, squabbling beggars - the journey is worth every sacrifice. One gets to know when the train enters Kerala, from the greenery around. Everything will be colored in a glowing green, which I have never seen anywhere else. It's like the colors are singing out to you. I sit on the steps holding the cold steel rails, while the wind blows against my face. I let all my worries slip away, and wave at the kid bathing under a street tap. As the sun sets along the horizon, small huts suddenly come into sight, with a 40 watt bulb glowing outside every house. Its like seeing the sky lit up with yellow stars along with the sun. The women of the house are busy preparing the evening meal, which is evident from the smoking chimneys, sending fumes into the huge overturned bowl of the sky. I can never take a comfortable flight home, and lose out on all these pretty sights. The bus ride home seems to be the longest, as I cannot wait to see my mother. It's funny that the closer we get to the end of our journey, the lesser is our patience to wait.

I reach home, and am greeted with such a flurry of excited banter and hugs, I feel like a homecoming warrior. After three rounds of hugging from everyone I manage to get in, and almost instantly, I get the heavenly smell of home-cooked food in coconut oil. My aunt refuses to let us eat until we become shudham (clean), so my cousins and I go to take a dip in the river. The sun has set, but the sky is not dark as yet. It's like the sun is hiding somewhere behind the coconut trees, and lighting up the sky for my sake. I plunge into the river, and swim to my heart's content.

I come back home, famished. After a quick change of clothes, I sit down with the rest of my family for dinner. The banana leaf is a light green, which shows that it's a fresh leaf, and has been skillfully cut from the backyard, at my aunt's instructions. There is an array of preparations served in a traditional way - pickle , salt, chips and banana at the extreme left, followed by kichadi (a dish made out of sour curd), thoran (an assortment of vegetables fried along with grated coconut and spices), olan (pulses and onions cooked in mild spices), avial (drumsticks and vegetables cooked in coconut milk), and pappadam (a flat, round cake made out of powdered rice, fried in oil) - and everything is steaming hot. There's rice right at the middle, and hot sambar is poured into it as well. After the food that I eat at office, which my mother would readily label as culinary blasphemy, this was a perfect treat to my gustatory and olfactory senses. I have looked for such a meal across cities, but found only hurried meals, cheap take aways, or fake attempts at reliving tradition; never the facile leisure of sitting down on the floor and enjoying a well cooked meal, and drinking hot jeerakavellam (water boiled with jeera).

A week is too short when you get to spent it in such a happy, carefree fashion. Early mornings, lazy afternoons, and excited nights punctuated by long swims in the river, late evenings of long conversations under trees, and food fit for the gods. The evenings are the best. Imagine: River side, sitting on rocks, eating upperi (chips) and watching touch-me-not(s) fold and droop at the most gentle contact, the occasional spray as someone takes a plunge, the smell of wet earth, distant sound of a conch being blown, lackadaisical swims in the river, dancing with cousins to the tunes of old super hit numbers playing on the radio, and after a good meal, peacefully slip into slumber listening to my mother sing lullabies to put my young nephew to bed. I could ask for nothing more; life was at it's lazy, indolent best.

Solitary company

I don't know how I came into this world
My life has been a mere blear
loneliness has always been inhere;
a strange, comfortable solitude.

I was cut off,
Right from the moment the umbilical cord snapped
and I was left in the hospital, in fresh white sheets, wrapped.
I am told that I was crying out loud,
as my mother was covered in a shroud.
I must have cried my heart out that night, for I cried no more.

Emotions fail me,
Relations don't exist.
I live, breathe, eat, sleep.
I don't let memories seep,
and I don't have promises to keep.

I lived here and there.
I live somewhere, in this crowded place.
People keep coming here-
always-
out of desperation, boredom, lust or need
For joy, for money;
and some fools, for love.
They know when they sleep here, all is asunder.
Devoid of nightmares of the day that make them shudder.
Night after night, lost in runaway pleasures,
followed by panicked, mechanical mornings.
They are men of the world,
a part of the never-ending race (or maybe chase) of life,
bravely fighting lost battles.

I watch them all come and go,
I hear their screams echo.
I see them win, I see them lose.
Until they cease to amuse-
themselves.

I am cut off, from it all.
Lone observer.
I come with no strings attached,
preferring to stay in the sidelines,
following the beelines.

An unnoticed, bleak existence.

Diwali

Friends, lights, Glitter
Excited chitter chatter
Street kids' banter.
Starlit sky, bulb lit streets
Happy faces and mouthful of sweets.
And then comes, the crackers...
Hiss, burst, explode, shimmer
creating hues, spectacular
Days of anticipation,
so much preparation,
and in a moment - up in flames!
Joy supramundane.

Caught in a time warp

The coffee has gone cold.

You should have been here by now.

It’s been so many years, I have lost count.

It’s snowing here.

I can see it fall outside the window.

Some flakes attach themselves to the glass. Just the way you like it.

Your wooden arm chair is by the window,

At such an angle, so you can see a bit of the snow, the sky and the woods beyond.

Your old and worn out copy of The Godfather is on the teapoy.

And Sam is lying on the carpet, all curled up and warm between your walking boots.

I am not pretty anymore. My long black hair is all gone.

And I don’t paint my nails.

But if you come, I will let you dress me up.

You can play with my salt and pepper hair for as long as you wish

I won’t complain or get irritated.

We will go on long walks whenever you want to, by the sea.

I won’t fuss about the dirty beach or salty air.

We can be in each other’s arms all night,

swaying with the gentle summer breeze;

And you could write poetry on me, with your fingertips.

The coffee has almost frozen. Doesn’t matter.

I’ll make you a fresh cup. I’ll make it bitter and frothy; the way you like it.

You know where the keys are, under the potted plant

Open the door and come home, sweetheart.

I am tired.

House Hunting

Five months in Hyderabad and we are house hunting again. I can't believe it. My flat mate (thats technically not correct as we live in an independent house and not a flat. But house mate sounds way too corny) Amandeep has decided to quit her job and move to Bangalore, to be with her boy friend. She has to go through a lot of protocol in office and the whole deal turns out to be really expensive, but I don't blame her. This city really is depressing. Garima (the other flat mate) has decided to take up the free accomodation available at The Taj, where she works. So that leaves just Tara and myself. The house we live in currently is way too big for us and we have been having a lot of water, rodent and plumbing issues lately. So we decided to move.

We set out yesterday to see some houses. The first one was pretty good. It's a one bedroom place, but Tara and I don't mind sharing a room. The house is big enough for the two of us, has a small balcony, is quite airy and clean as well. The whole deal works out pretty cheap too. But Tara is not quite happy with it as it's a little inside. As in, we won't be living close to the main road. But there are shops and auto stands close by. So I don't think there should be a problem. But we decided to see some more places and not decide on anything in a hurry.

It was a long, tiring day and we were roaming around Banjara Hills, Jubilee Hills and Sri Nagar Colony the whole day until evening. Flats, houses, rooms, shared rooms - we saw it all. I think we really looked lost and homeless, because we were asked by some strangers on the road if we were looking for some place to rent out; and this happened twice. We were desperate enough to take the second stranger's number, who turned out to be a broker and considered some of the options he gave.

We tried raising our budget, although I would find it difficult to shell out so much money. Still no luck. None of the decent apartments are available for two single working women as they assume that we have ulterior intentions of starting a brothel. The brokers tell us that straight on our face with such attitude, as if it's a crime to even consider that as an option. So houses or rooms are our best bet.

Seven hours, four brokers and ten houses later, we are still homeless.

Maybe we should just move into that first house we saw and liked. So what if it's a little far from the main road? There are so many people from both Tara's and my office living close by. There are shops too. The area is safe as well.

Sigh.

We are going to see some more places today. Hope something works out soon.

The Conversation

My computer screen blinks for a microsecond and the display is back. The page has been refreshed.

I see a red envelope on the top left corner and beside it, in parenthesis, the magic number - (1).

I've got mail!

I can't wait. I just have to check my mail. Maybe it's him.
Maybe he has written a poem for me.
Maybe he has finally decided to tell me how he feels about me, things that have been left unsaid.
Maybe he just wants to drop a line, share a moment together through this technological interface, challenging the miles that separate us geographically.
Maybe it's one of those horrible pointless 'Please forward me or you will rot in hell' mails. Sigh.
I decide that I will check anyway.

I hold my breath as I click on the tab. . .

'Dear Citibank Customer, your account balance is ..." I do not care to read any further.

Disappointed, I return to the technological tomfoolery that I do for a living.

[minutes later]

I sign into G talk and search for his name. I stare at the round green blob for a second. I read his status message. I read it again. and again. Once again I stare at the green blob that is shining beside his name. I imagine him at work, staring at some paper as he rubs the back of his neck with his right hand, deep in thought. He shakes his head and combs his hair with his hand. I can almost smell him now. I continue to stare at the green blob. Occasionally I read his name.

Suddenly I hear the sound of a gong. No. That can't be Air Supply playing.

A small box pops up and I see his name on it. He has pinged me. We talk.

:)

Love Letters

Finally I got to see some good theatre in Hyderabad. Rage Productions' 'Love letters' was undoubtedly one of the most brilliant performances ever. It's very rarely that all works well in theatre. That very uncertainty is its challenge and beauty. But what I witnessed last Friday was something close to a miracle. The story, told through a series of letters written by two people - Andy and Melissa - was beautifully portrayed by veteran actors Rajit Kapur and Shernaz Patel. It was delightful to watch them bring out their nameless relationship, that grows from juvenile delinquents, to adulthood discovery, to middle aged dependence, and somewhere down the line into an innocent love that conquers the deepest depths and attains the highest heights.


I wonder if such love exists in reality. Are we capable of a love that is so unconditional and real? My grandparents were married to each other for 70 years. Does that mean they were truly in love? Now, I don't want to judge their lives or label their relationship; but I know they were inseparable in a very ethereal, delicate way that I cannot put in words. They continued to care for each other long after youth, passion, romance and all else left them. Maybe it comes out of habit, of having lived together for so many years.

I wonder if I will ever find such effortless comfort in anyone's company; if I'll ever want to spend a lifetime with someone.

I'm way too cynical to even hope for it.

Cynically Yours

Monday morning blues. No. Morning blues. No. Just Blues.

Life has been just plain depressing these days.

What is worse than a depressing book? A depressing book that you cannot put down. Well, what’s worse? A depressing book that you can’t put down, because every word of it is true. A series of events in the past, coupled with all else has sucked all zing out of me. Tara and I have been feeling so low, that our chins touch the ground all the time. There’s nothing to do in this city, and we miss Chennai terribly. This place, the people, work and all else is just dead; and reading The Inheritance of Loss just reassured all my cynical beliefs.

Grief is forever. There's no escape. Things will go wrong, and what you feared the most will happen. Do not try to fight it or change it. You can try to be brave, and attempt to make a life out of mere existence. But that's gratuitous. All you need to do, is to watch helplessly as your dreams go up in smoke, and your life's fantastic imagery becomes incongruously juxtaposed against reality.

monotonous rants

I am sick of life.

I need the sea.

I want to sit on a wooden armchair and stretch my legs on the stone floor on a rainy evening, with a steaming hot cup of coffee on the table beside me.

I want to smell the earth; that profound olfactory sensation, of wet earth.

I want to love and be loved.

I want to slowly drift into deep, peaceful slumber and dream endlessly into the night.

Chennai

I have always loved rain for some reason. The sky looks so fine and I love the smells that rain brings. It’s like rain has the power to penetrate into almost anything and then bring out its best. If you have ever been to the sea when it’s raining, then maybe you’ll understand. You can close your eyes and let the magic of all your other senses work; and it’ll reveal to you a lot of things that vision can never capture.

So it’s raining outside right now and instead of being out there enjoying it, I am sitting here and working. Sigh. Rain always brings back a lot of memories. I have always been a very water person; at least ever since my uncle threw me into the water (I was 6 yrs old I think) and made me learn swimming. My house in Kerala is only a 10 minute walk away from the sea and so you can imagine what kind of a childhood I would have had. Thanks to my maternal Uncle, we (referring to sister, cousins, friends and other extended family members, as we used to live in a joint family) used to go to the beach almost every other day and would play all evening, until we were exhausted and returned with tired limbs and sore throats owing to the continuous screaming, cheering and shouting. My uncle would then take us all to the Indian Coffee House close by and get us hot ethakka bajji and kappi. Then the noisy bunch of us would walk or take the bus home; all the while providing endless amusement to passers by. Now things have changed and the inevitable has happened: we all grew up. Studies, careers and marriages have thrown us around the globe and those who are together back home also find themselves lost in monotonous routine. Although I moved to Chennai to do my graduation, I did not really miss home as Chennai was a lot like home. In fact, over the years it has become a place I would consider home, like Kerala. And in Chennai, too, there were two beaches; beautiful ones. I really miss Chennai; the genuine people, the vast sea, the brilliant sky… Most of all, I miss the beautiful city itself, where there’s so much to see, do, discover.

Hyderabad, without a shadow of doubt, is perhaps the worst city to live in if you are someone like me, with a soul that’s hungry for beauty, excitement and zing. Hyderabad in the early mornings is as dead as a place can get. There is no friendly hustle bustle, chirping birds or anything of the sort. Nothing is alive; everything just exists. There is no celebration of art, culture and theatre. The days are quite uneventful and all that people here like to do is to party; Party all night and week long. And even the language lacks the beautiful rhythm that Malayalam and Tamil has. The words sound like there are no vowels and people communicate through sounds. I saw a boy selling bubbles the other day, beside the lake. There was a surge of joy as I bought a bottle from him and sat down to blow my worries away. And then. No bubbles. The solution was too watery or there was something wrong with the straw. But I'll blame it on the city that seems to have a fierce aversion to happiness. Life is just plain depressing. To make things worse, the city is culturally dead. (Did I mention that before?)

This post is to declare my love for Chennai and all the hidden poetry that the city contains between its folds. Chennai – a brigadoon of sorts with the most wonderful coffee, fine theatre, real people, deep blue sea, perfect full moon nights, vast radiant sky, lovely rains, delicate yellow flowers, language charged with music, perpetually alive streets – the city that gave me so much, where I found and lost love (or something close to it), where I learned and unlearned, where I have seen the prettiest of sights, where the sky never fails to smile and the moon continues to shine.

All I ask for

I know there's no future for us
so let our relationship be nameless
no need to try and give it a shape
cos its best when there are no rules; when its formless
no need to expect anything and then later, weep
no need for any promises that we cant keep

forget all the warnings and advice, throw them out of the window
let's listen to our hearts and ask for no more.
make love to me the way you want to
let me explore you like a virtu
lets sing and dance and enjoy the night
cos the night is young and the moon full 'n shining bright

don't curb the passions; let them swallow
and set our souls aglow
no need to share all my joys and sorrow
just love me today, like there's no tomorrow

too much of Google,
thoughts fizzle,
pen & paper wrestle,
blocks to tackle.

Coffee off the kettle,
down the throat trickle,
muses tickle,
ideas sparkle !

an old dream

Cleaning cupboards can be a lot of fun. Especially when you come across some of your belongings that you never knew existed. Amidst a broken voodoo doll (ahem, my idea of play as a child was quite different), a couple of rough sketches, some stones and sticks, I found this essay that I had written when I was 13 yrs old. It was for some competition held at school and I had won a cash award of Rs.1000. The copy is hand written with a Hero pen, in blue ink.

Read on . . .

India of my Dreams

India, my country, also called Bharat, has a long history – political, cultural and spiritual – of at least ten thousand years. While other parts of this known and unknown world were steeped in the misty depths of darkness, the glow of wisdom, the light of glory, was shining here, shimmering here, like a beacon.

Coming to modern times, my country was politically cut up into three pieces, the western and eastern planks forming the theocratic state of Pakistan, and the middle piece forming secular India in 1947. The demand for dividing India into two regions on religious basis sprang from religious passion, fanatical intolerance and political skullduggery. Now, India is the cradle of Hinduism, and tenets of this religion spread even in the ancient times to other countries, notably the eastern Asiatic countries like Cambodia, Indonesia, etc. Buddhism, Jainism and Sikhism sprang from it. All religions were welcome here. The early Christians arrived here in 48 AD. St. Thomas, the Apostle of Jesus Christ was welcome here and was allowed to settle down and spread his religion. The Jews were equally welcome. So were the Zoroastrians. Muslims alone came with the sword, but they too settled here. Finally they demanded partition of the family and had their say under a willing British mastermind. But history, that forbidden teacher, taught them a lesson. Their house was once again partitioned in 1971 and the Eastern flank, peopled by the dark Bengali Muslims, walked away with Bangladesh. Baluchistan and Sind are of dissent and further partitions cannot be ruled out. My dream of India is that all these three pieces should come together and once again form that great India, recapturing the glory that was Ind.

Moving on, even modern India lives in villages. There are 5,50,000 of them, which people 70% of the population. There are umpteen villages among these, where drinking water and primary education are still luxuries, even after 53 years of independence. In the India of my dreams, all these villages will have enough drinking water and all the boys and girls will have had at least primary education.

In the India of my dreams, all the great rivers of the country like the motherly Ganga, Yamuna, Kaveri, Krishna, Godavari, Narmada, Brahmaputra, Sone, etc will be interlinked by an intelligent system of canals and there shall be neither floods, nor famines.

In the India of my dreams, parents will be a very reasonable community of people, unlike now. They will not beget in such thoughtless fashion of passion as of now to become a teeming billion! They will not force their children to be doctors or engineers. Instead, only those who are naturally inclined will seek medical and engineering education. In that way we will have dedicated doctors and enterprising engineers who are there owing to their natural inclination.

In the India of my dreams, followers of other religions will, in their own mature reflection and thinking, come to realize that all paths lead to one goal and just as a 100 is received by adding 10 ten times, 20 five times, 50 two times, or in such endless ways, God – the Ultimate Reality - could also be reached through any number of methods and not necessarily one or two as some of the arrived faiths in this country have the cheek to believe and tell the aborigines of this country.

In the India of my dreams, Science & Technology will flourish as much as Art & Music. While we have our own thriving culture in the arts, we have to make headway in the technological front.

In the India of my dreams, every house will have a computer and an internet connection to make life more meaningful, interesting, instructive and enjoyable. In the India of my dreams, there will be no poverty, no waste of food, no spitting and littering as of now.

In the India of my dreams, dogs and stray animals will not be allowed to become the menace that they are now.

In the India of my dreams, vegetarianism and Ayurveda will flourish and the dead will continue to be cremated and those who do not cremate the dead will also realize the spiritual meaning and social good of such customs.

In the India of my dreams, the smoker will not offend the non-smoker into passive smoking as of now.

In the India of my dreams, God will still be a realizable agenda of daily existence.

And in my heart, I believe that all such dreams of every Indian will come true and that India will shine in all respects. For that matter, has anyone spread a thought as to why the Upanishads were born in India and not in Uganda; Why the Mahabharata, encompassing the Great Bhagavad-Gita, was conceived and written in India and not in ‘Maha’ Britain; Why Valmiki was born in India and wrote in Sanskrit, and not in the Virgin Islands and wrote in Arabic; Why Adi Shankaracharya was born in Kaladi in Kerala and not in Aden; Why Sri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa was born in Bengal and not in Belgium; Why Swami Vivekananda settled in India and not in America, amidst the lust and luxury; Why a Mohandas – suited, coated and educated in England to become a Barrister-at-law – returned to India, changed his robes and become a half naked fakir; to lead this country into Freedom and Light; Why Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru should describe river Ganga in such ecstatic prosperity when writing up such a mundane thing as his will?

In spite of all the negative, disappointing, disconcerting and dehumanizing factors that are discernible in every sphere of endeavor in the country at the moment, I have a deeply held; almost spiritual conviction, that one day this country will rise again to the great levels of consciousness, both spiritual and material, that it had reached years ago.

The Photograph

You are on my desk, caught in a photograph

You watch me work, write, yawn, laugh

I look at you often

And it’s like the best conversation

You sit there all day, twixt the tissue box and potted plant

Giving me the undivided attention I want

I wonder if you think of me, when I think of you.

Is there a picture of me on your desk too?

I care for you in my own strange way

Maybe you’ll never know; maybe I’ll never show.

Life is Fleeting

Gauri is in the kitchen making coffee. Aman enters, puts his files and bag down, goes into the kitchen and hugs Gauri. He slowly traces kisses from her ear down to her neck.

"Stop!", she shouts and pushes him away and continues to make coffee.

"Why, whats wrong with you?", asks Aman and he grabs her by the waist and starts kissing her face again.

Gauri pushes him away again and walks towards the door.

Aman gets there before her and stops her.

"What is it? Tell me. You hate me, don't you? You don't think I'm good enough, huh?" he shouts.

He tries to force himself on her.

Trring.. trring.. the telephone rings.

He shoves her away and picks up the receiver. "Hello?"

No reply from the other end.

"Hello…. Speak, you bastard!"

No response. He slams the receiver down and looks at her.

"That must have been for you, right? You think I don't know? You think I am a fool?" he strides towards her and pulls her close to him. He starts ripping her clothes off and does not stop in spite of her constant screaming.

Trrring… trring.. the telephone rings again.

He throws her on the ground, picks up the receiver and shouts "Stop calling her you bastard. You want to know what is happening here right now? She is with me. She is mine and there is nothing you can do about it. Listen. Hear her scream, beg, plead." He guffaws.

He turns around and finds that Gauri is sipping coffee from her mug.

"Come here, you filthy whore!" He screams and walks towards her.

Gauri puts her mug on the table and turns towards him, trying to protest and stop him. He throws her against the wall, presses himself against her and starts to pull her hair and bite her.

Suddenly the big marble jar, placed on the top shelf moves back and forth dangerously. The meretricious ornamentation falls on Aman with a loud bang.

Its all over in a moment. No more shouting or screaming. He did not let out a single sound.

An undignified, helpless death.

Gauri picks up her mug from the table, walks towards the window and continues to drink her coffee.

Ordinary Ordeal

Sometimes the most insignificant of things leave a fleeting impression in your life; a moment's contact with someone or a snippet from some strange conversation or a line from some old song. The feeling comes to you in a flash, but its something that you have always known and lived with. I love such moments.
I fancy calling myself a very simple person. I do not believe in wearing jazzy clothes or decking myself up everyday. I would happily wear my floaters wherever i go and would rather be at the beach than a busy mall, shopping. I find great joy in simple things like the sea, glass bangles, coffee mugs, books and so on. Now the purpose of this post is to tell you about my encounter with a certain someone.
I met her at office today. She cleans the toilets on my floor and I see her almost everyday. She is short, not very fat and has a beautiful smile. She has a small gold stud on her pierced nose. Her hair is usually plaited or tied up in a bun and there is always a general air of rush around her as she moves around with her mop and bucket from one toilet into another, refilling tissue holders, emptying dustbins and spraying room fresheners.We occasionally exchange a smile (once when i felt like putting my language skills to test, I spoke to her in Telugu. She burst into fits of laughter and since then i stick to my smiling or nodding.) As i have been experiencing insomnia for the past couple of weeks, I feel the need to refresh myself quite often. A generous splash of water every hour or so usually gives amazing results. So on one such trip to the restroom this afternoon, I met her there. Blue mop in one hand and a white bucket on the other, she was proceeding to do her routine cleaning business. I had brought my kajal with me so as to apply it once I was done with splashing. I left next to the basin, under the tissue dispenser so that i could get on with the splashing, when she took a fancy for my kajal and picked it up. "Leepshtik?", she asked me, with the same innocence of my five-year old nephew. "No, i replied. That's my kajal." She knew what kajal meant and it saved me from a struggle with the local language. "Oh! mine small and round. red colour.", she said. "I smiled and nodded in agreement. "Rupee kada ?", she asked. She was rubbing the thumb and index finger of her right hand in constant motion which further assured me that she wanted to know how much it costs. "100 rupees.", I told her. She was shocked and stunned; and the next moment she started laughing; a hand- over-mouth unbelievable sort of laugh. In between fits of laughter she told me "mine 5 rupees." More laughter. "Madam style." Laughter. Her eyes were telling me that she thought i was some rich freak who works for a big company and uses all branded and expensive things. Someone used to extravagance; who has always been pampered and maybe born with a silver spoon in her mouth. At that instant I felt as if the friendly connection that was there between us through occasional smiles and nods just vanished and we were separated by a grotesque mask and there was immeasurable distance between us. I wanted to tell her that it was not true. That's not the case. I am not one of those women whom she meets everyday, who may not even think of returning the warmth in her smile. But language and words failed me. I went into the loo and on my way out I looked at her as she was busily cleaning the basin. I was searching for the usual smile and "ta ta madam!" I walked out unnoticed.

Poem, of sorts...

I like . . .

the way you hold my hand and rub between my fingers
the way you kiss me deep and how your taste lingers

the way you massage my back and press down my spine
Rub the sides of my breast and kiss me from behind

the way you kiss and make my lips swell
the way our toes meet and the stories they tell

I like . . .

like to run my fingers through your hair,
as your lips explore me everywhere

like your smell, the smell of you
No, not cigarette, deo or mint you chew

its you and the way your body smells
I cannot compare it to anything else

I like the way you whisper into my ears
urging me to talk; about all my fears

And I like it when you listen with undivided attention,
The way you put your arms around me in a busy street, for protection

I like . . .

like it when you hold me close, like am in your safe keeping
And then watch me, when am sleeping

like it when you hug me tight
wish you could keep me warm night after night

like it when you draw the curtains and ruffle through my hair,
And in little ways you show me, how much you care.

I like to listen to your breathing, lying close against your chest,
To feel the rhythm that keeps you going as beside me you rest

I want to dream and dance with you
I want to talk
and on moonlit nights, I want to go on long walks

I want to take care of you, make you feel loved
and with all else dissolved,
I want to hold eternity in every hug.

Sometimes you are shocked to see
how things in life turn out to be
bad luck seems to love your company
and you are constantly trying to break free
then suddenly there's a trace of light
and everything changes overnight.
no more odds are left to fight
and you smile again, in pure delight.
the sudden clear sky after storm and thunder
really makes me wonder
how the whole scheme of things work.

God gives every man his own measure
of joy, sorrow, madness, work and leisure
and its good
that two and two don't always make a four;
For, if things were perfect all the time
paradise would be such a bore!

my big whopping paunch
does'nt move, shift, slide or sway
how i miss my toes

haiku

This is much much more fun. must try!

#1
Like paint on paper
you, my most precious one have
left imprints on me . .

#2
In deep peaceful sleep,
hues from an unseen palette
colour all my dreams .

#3
Dew drops fall only
to crackle, split , disappear
never to be held . .

#4
I miss you my love
Feel lifeless. Like the sky when
Moon is in hiding .

#5
Pure milk chocolate
Provides continued delight
Endless appetite .

#6
Outstretched arms ignored
Last rain drop falls on the ground
Another dream is lost.

#7
Pain killers don’t help
This shooting piercing back pain
Am slowly dying.

#8
We made love all night
Then woke up and said goodbye
Reality bites.

#9
Bubbles on night sky
Burst or float to distant lands
Never to return. .

Limericks

my first shot at limericks.
great fun. enjoy!

#1
A limerick will have you rolling with laughter
And compared to a poem, its definitely better
Cos it takes less space
And narrates things at great pace
On any topic, often with humour.

#2
Romantic me told my boyfriend,
“Darling, our love will never end”.
A ‘dreamer’ he called me
With no sense of reality
God! Why such fuckwits as men do you send ?!

Everyone is a different person when they are with someone else and we all lives different lives all the time. sometimes i wonder how one would be if no one else existed.
what if there was no world at all? no thoughts, no perceptions, no existence.
sigh. maybe i have been staring at the ceiling for too long. will count sheep and go to sleep.

Valentine’s day is around the corner and almost every company is trying to endorse it’s product by making it the ‘one special gift for your valentine.’ Chocolates, jewellery, clothes, cars, diamonds, books, even tyre manufacturers call their new modal specially synthesized fine grip tyres to be that one dream gift your valentine is waiting for. And the advertisements also portray that if you do not turn up on this special day in your finest attire and with THE gift, you’re in for trouble.
Seriously, this is so ridiculous. And what is worse is when your good friends who totally agree with you on how pointless the whole thing is, run helter-skelter a week before the d day in search of THE gift for their valentine.
If you ask me, the best thing a man can give a woman is his undivided attention. Nothing like spending a whole day together with no family, friends, work and phone calls to interfere. Forget gifts and surprises. Just quality time spent together.

Sometimes in life you meet someone and then everything changes. You start seeing everything from a whole new perspective, like never before, and there is excitement in the air – always.
What you feel for him is so different and he is really special. What you have for him is a love that comes out of nothing but love itself. He’s not the most handsome man you’ve ever met, he’s not the life of every party, and he’s not your knight in shining armor. He has always been a part of you and you have known him for so long. There is an effortless comfort when he's around. You can sit with him for a whole evening, not say a single word, but still end up feeling that it’s the best conversation you’ve ever had. He does not make you complete; but you can share your incompleteness with him.
When you’re with him everything seems so right and the world seems to be like the perfect place to live in. Words become redundant and you start speaking through eyes, touch, feel, music. Reality becomes an illusion and he becomes a part of everything you do. He is the music in every song you listen to, the inspiration of every picture you paint, the subject of every poem you write.
You can speak about almost any insignificant thing and still feel the absolute need to tell each other about it, no matter how trivial it is – and you feel like you are living life together even though you actually live in two corners of the world.
He is perfect. Not flawless, but perfect – for you, because every morning you want to wake up and see his sleepy face beside you, you want to drink the first cup of coffee with him and get through the day knowing that he’s around. It’s like you are witnessing each other’s lives. It’s to him that you want to reveal all your silly thoughts and ideas, it’s to him that you always go for reassurance and encouragement, it’s him that you want to marry and make babies with. You want to live everyday of your life with him. Even forever doesn’t seem long enough to be with him. And it’s not because he’s the perfect someone you can live with; he’s someone you cannot live without.
You take away the passion, the thrill, the romance, the excitement, to find that after all that you still care. The relationship is on a totally different – almost spiritual – plane.
You start living life the way you wanted to, doing all the things that you always wanted to, and you find that you can’t stop smiling, just can’t hide the feeling, your feet keep tapping and you want to keep dancing; all the time. And very often you end up talking in rhyme!

Sometimes I wonder, when you think of someone, do they think of you? I have always felt that there is more to everything than what I know of. There is always a part of the picture that I cannot see. Maybe because of the way I look at things or maybe because some things are just beyond me. Is it true that no two people think alike? Very unlikely, because if there is no unity in thought, or at least similarity, nothing can ever happen or exist. But most of the time I feel disconnected from the people around me and their thoughts. Its like all the world thinks one way and I, another. I have always wanted to know what other people felt, the whole thought process that goes on inside their head; so that I too could partake and get involved in life instead of just watching it from the sidelines.

I have always lived my life the way I want to. I have done things that interest me; I try my best to pursue my dreams and live life the way I want to. Of course, that does'nt mean that I don't have to make adjustments and considerations. But i have always managed to have my way.
Sometimes, you are really sure about some things. Even if you know that given the present circumstances it is almost impossible to achieve it, you still don't give up. You keep trying. Maybe you will put it aside for the moment so that you can attend to more important things at hand. But it's always there at the back of your mind. Knowingly or unknowingly you are always trying to achieve that; all means are directly or indirectly focussed on that end.
And then you find that things have become a lot easier. The desire to achieve That gives you the energy to face all else. They say that we must all find what our basic interest is, what is it that we have a passion for and must then make a life out of it. But thats not possible all the time. We may have to live a mechanical or not so happy life before we get the freedom to do what we want. Just because we let that happen does'nt mean we are cowards. It takes a lot of courage to do that and a whole lot of passion to keep the dream alive.