night

the tambourine sings
a tune unfamiliar.
everything has stilled,
including my breath.
the blue sheet over me
is getting cooler, i sink
deeper into the pillows,
deeper into the coils,
of this moonless night.
strangely comforting
are her dark tendrils.
i am lulled by the tune.
the deafening rush
of blood through the veins
has quietened, they say,
it will be hours before
that too will pause.
the yearning to be one
with the black moss,
growing on the path
you might take someday
has been granted.
the tambourine sings on.
will i ever want to wake?

JC (i)

the meeting

wind was in my hair,
and a pebble in my birkenstock
so i stopped to tie the unruly locks,
and shake the pebble out.
that’s when i saw him
resting against a rock.

exchanged notes about the climb,
he was on his way to the village,
i was running away from people.
watch out for the burning bush
he joked, and i told him to stay
clear of the dancing girls.

my Blue one had danced with many,
i was the eternally jealous one,
but JC had had a tough life
i could see, he was still young.
when realization dawned,
i asked him, “what are you doing here
a few centuries late?”
he gave a lopsided smile,
“duh!” he said, “you don’t know the tale?
no one believes me,
but i’ll be back i had said!”


JC (ii)

the miracle
i am on the rock,
by the banks of the river
that you will not find on any map.
the rope of my sandals,
has cut deep into my ankles,
proof that it takes many a mile
to gather but twelve believers.
others have come too,
some to fulfil a curiosity,
some to justify doubts,
some because there’s no cable.
the expectant murmur
has settled down to a simmer.

my words have been too simple --
an ocean in their feeble hands,
hence i must prove by act
what words have failed to convey.

i wish i could wiggle my toes
in the cold waters, happy,
in the manner of children,
but this is not the time
for frolick. it’s time to fulfil
a larger design, a purpose.

your Blue one got away by
opening his mouth wide,
to show he was it all, that
the universe was a part of him,
but the folk here are too rough hewn
i need to start small,
so i stand tall, yet humble
and step on to the waters
for their first glimpse --
of eternity.

drenched!

water drips from your hair,
my eyes measure
six, maybe seven inches,
to your pink tee shirt.

the kohl underneath
your brown eyes
is smudging your cheeks,
i stop myself from saying,
"no, don't dab it away..."

you run a quick hand
through your hair,
what would you say
if you would find me
entangled there?

fascinated by an errant drop
sliding down your throat
into the vee of the tee,
i've missed the reasons
why you like malabar monsoon.

"drink your coffee, baba!"
you say, laughter gurgling
out of your lips and on
to the table between us.
i am persuaded.

but i see you shiver
ever so slightly as the coffee
spreads its warmth.
i pretend the sugar sachet is
more than mildly interesting.

i sigh inside,
might as well drink
the damned coffee,
than let my imagination
be drenched with you.

besides, the cafe is crowded,
my throat is dry,
my feet are cold,
and although you're so close,
you only wish to talk.


inspired wholly by jugal mody and his tale (again!) of an uncaring lass!

set piece

i hadn’t thought of him for a while,
not a poem in his name,
something else had captivated me,
he thought it was just a game.

so he sat down beside me,
with a beguiling smile so casual,
“care for new tune this time
or perhaps your usual?”

no tune of pure seduction,
no promise of eternal bliss,
not even your peacock crown,
shall keep me away from this.

he held my hand now,
and whispered in my ear,
be my love, my only love,
come be with me, i’m here.

my heart did skip a beat i admit,
"go seduce a cowgirl or two,"
i did manage to say, "but now,
wait for me as i did for you."

he laughed, "and those poems
you pen, of love and agony?
come now, or never again,
it'll be just you and only me."

i stole a kiss, before i sighed,
so such was to be my fate!
i’ll write more love poems i promise,
but not now love, can’t you wait?

his glance at me was quizzical,
i had unwrapped his arms from mine,
"no song, no words, no touch
affects you, what could make you mine?"

you’re my love, i assure you,
but i love the offer you’re making,
teamgeist is my fever now,
a german-argentine final i’m seeking.

Taking a Stand

Hemant Suthar and Vikraant Nath have taken a stand. Vikraant is a business person who has offered free tee shirts to the striking docs, braving the heat and the dust. he did not have to do it, but he is a believer. Hemant has designed the very powerful logo which is on the tee shirts. i truly believe that we need to find a better solution towards equal opportunities rather than mere reservation.

this is the brilliant logo:

Nainital

i mourn an almost man,
a boy with silk for hair,
who closed his laughing eyes
in the deep blue
this afternoon.

i, icarus.

motionless on the grass,
i can smell the green,
and dream of Blue again.

it is thursday, i think,
could be any day, really,
the sun-roughened tongue
of greedy summer,
has not yet begun
to taste the skin,
or lap up tears from eyes.

it was spring, and i,
was just answering
that desperate need
to leap into the blue.

what better ladder
than the gnarled redwood?
if i climbed high enough
i’d be closer to Him…

i won’t shout for help,
there’s no one out here.
the earth is slow but sure,
it will claim these bones.

so i let the shadows
examine them slowly.

the long fingers uncurl,
one checks the weakening
pulse, another, my eyes.
"let me see inside, open, open!"
a cold spidery voice insists.

do i have a choice?
the bony fingers pry open
my eyelids, "where?
where are the tears?
why are there no tears?
why do you deprive me
the pleasure of tears?"

i try to move, but cannot.
can't even explain,
i was reaching out
to the Blue one
why would i cry?

the fingers lash across
my face, in anger.
have you felt anger
of the shadows?

it is not unlike the unexpected
low branch that hits you
when you ride horseback
through woods.
you know it is there,
but do not know
you would be in its path.
that’s why most people
are afraid of shadows.

there’s a wetness
spreading on the grass.
"feel it? feel it?"
chorus the shadows,
i do. i feel the wetness,
and see the sun
dapple the shadows away.

i know now. i close my eyes.
something in the neck is broken.

summer is here...

 

for the girls

the room reeks of vanilla
candles, or is it stale
ice cream?
i pull the curtains
apart, let sunlight in.

it’s the debris
of a pity party.
women! i sigh!
when will we learn!
quietly as i can
pick up acres of tissue
carpeting the floor.

at least the girls had
style! the wine was fine,
and real French takeaway
from pristine white boxes
embossed in gold.
but the story they told
was same old, same old.

heartache for a lover,
lost to a woman
who had never known
chafing.
she had a gap
between her thighs.
and an IQ that matched
her shoe size…

the coffee machine
signals. it’s time
to save the girls.

mix pink pajamas
and dark Arabica
get bleary-eyed questions:
“where were you?”
“what’s with the smile?”
“please don’t say
Krishna saves.
what do i care for savings
when my current account feels so fucked?”

true. true. all true.
but as the raspy voiced
high priest of rock says,
‘the times they are a…’

“wake up dahlings,
binging on pain is passé.
we girls have to work smart.
we need to learn to call in.
report that pain.”

“don’t waste time
mourning the bastards.
or thinking of revenge.
you really want them back? not!”

“so flash your Visa
Mastercard even.
receive flowers,
Darcy on DVD.
pink Champers to start afresh.
better than calling agony aunties
or crying for mom.
call woesBgone dot com
and outsource the damned pain.”

Betelnut Killers

it's taken a long long time, and finally my story is being made into a film.

and you can be a part by becoming a co-producer with as little as $100

check out the movie that is going to be blogged all the way!

the link is http://blog.betelnutkillers.com


and by the way,
the paypal thing works...

chanting

the lust

in those voices,

as they call out your name,

seeps through

the billion pores

on my skin,

and presses against my spine

to arch it in a jealous moan.

i have closed my eyes,

and allowed the salt

to saturate my cheeks.

hating,

years of etiquette,

that do not allow me

the same abandon.

how i hide the insanity,

of this love,

deep inside,

it has become a habit now.

but the lust

in those voices,

travels down my ears,

to the secret corner

of my heart,

and a wave erupts

inside, disrupting

Brahma mudra.

i raise my hands,

take a deep deep breath,

and allow desire,

to raise my neck

skywards,

to be kissed by you,

my Blue.

happy hour

so you wrote a love poem to me
and sent it by email.
all your desires,
denuded by pixels,
a digital divide
between your passion
and mine.

how i wish,
you were sitting here
in front of me,
our knees touching,
just so i could lean forward
to catch your low voice,
your elbows resting on your thigh.
as you read the same poem
you scribbled in that unreadable text.
(your handwriting’s a murder,
but you’re forgiven
because your hair flops over
your dreamy eyes,
and makes you look like
a wiser John Abraham.)

the words would mean so much more,
if i could hear you mouth them aloud.
they would linger on your lips,
and when we kiss
i would get to taste them.
(hmm...a bit of Bourneville and Glenlivet
and blueberry muffins
with cinnamon?)

i could stuff the poem away,
in the back pocket of my jeans,
put my arms around you,
and pretend to read
your eyes instead.
(darn those sooty lashes
you inherited from your mama!)

or better still,
you’d hand me the letter
and let me read,
distracting me
from the words,
by tracing lazy circles
on my thigh.

until then, i shall smile
at the moiré,
and savor each word,
of the love poem
you send me by email.

Reunion

i light up an excuse
in the rain washed verandah,
and exhale relief.

"it's temporary, it's temporary!"
the koyals mock knowingly.

i've been trapped,
in a house called reunion,
and strangers called family.

small breezes carry
words from within,
i shudder.
gossip has a way
of settling in the head.

how that tailor from udhampur,
measures the ample samples
of great aunt mona,
behind closed doors.
how her brocade blouses,
seem to need
a trial too many...

the rest is drowned in laughter.

over tea and fritters
reputations are shred.
of aunts and cousins
who couldn't make it
to this august gathering.
and kind words are said,
about ways and lives of those
huddled over mint yogurt dip,
and cheesy garlic bread.

someone notices my absence.
i hear a strident voice,
"what dreadful habit she's picked up!"
"go tell her there's more chai."
a little obedient munchkin,
with mischief in her eye,
skips out with the message, then adds,
"everybody's been dissected,
it's your turn now."

i look to heavens for help,
the rainclouds are low,
pausing in their incessant task,
gossip is juicier, go in, go!

i flick the butt,
scratch my head of hair,
knowing they'll kill me in there,
as i turn, i notice gramps
uncoiling from his chair.

another cackle from inside
drowns my question to him,
but he offers valuable advice
"first," he says, "stop being so grim!
the hyenas are waiting,
don't tuck your tail and run
(it excites them, he said),
don't be fodder,
you miserable sod,
just sidetrack them instead.
tell tall tales of lust
spin spicy tales of sin,
the hyenas are waiting,
go on, go on in!"

At Kalachakra

hands folded in prayer,
twelve in the room.
lit by the cold january sun,
wait in silence.

should i breathe?
i wonder.
what if i exhaled
and wasted the moment,
should i breathe?

should i blink?
what if i should miss
the eternity of sharing
the same space as him?
dare i blink?

what if he should touch me?
a tap on the shoulder,
or a handshake even.
how would i react?
and would it be right?

there were far more deserving
of his healing touch,
waiting in the sun outside.
would he understand my need
to jostle for a favored place
in the line of believers?

will i hear
each word he says
or will i hear
and still miss
anything that he says?

i hear the swish
of yellow robes.
he is frailer than his pictures.
his wristwatch hangs loose
on his bony hand.
nothing weak
about his words though.

brightest eyes i have seen,
now observe my tearful ones,
he has seen many like mine.

before the hum of prayers
from the outside,
deafens the few
caught in his magical gaze inside,
he stands hugging distance
i dare not follow the impulse.

bite my lip,
and extend my hand
as my fist uncurls,
his eyes twinkle.
his laughter sounds loud,
surprising the solemn room.
he pockets the gift,
and steps out into the sunlight.

i wonder about the laughter,
that's when i see Him.
arms folded, grin in place,
the Blue One has been watching.
you’ve found me, he laughs,
why then, are you greedy?
i pretend not to understand

you stop laughing at me,
i wiggle my finger at him.
i still need words
to comfort me.
i switch to fm in defiance.

Avalokiteshwara’s words
crackle salve into my ears.
besides, he looks like you
my Blue One.
and he likes chocolate
you saw him take it, didn’t you?