Krrish 3 review

KRRISH 3

★☆☆☆☆

Kangna KOs Krrish!

Mini Review:

There’s not a thing that’s original in this movie and you hope there’s a million dollar lawsuit on the horizon, but a star is born, and Kangna trumps Krrish in his own movie.

Main Review:

Imagine watching this movie with Stan Lee, Patrick Stewart, Hugh Jackman, Jennifer Lawrence, Nirupa Roy, Uma Thurman, Robert Pattinson, Chris Nolan, Zack Snyder and Toby Stevens…

Stan Lee: I need to get Amitabh Bachchan to do a voiceover for Chakra.

Patrick Stewart: Modified Neelkamal chair… oooh! Niiice! Me wants one. But the hair, the hair on Vivek Oberoi! I prefer my bald head..

Me: The director is bald too…

Jennifer Lawrence: Shush! Let me watch Kangna. What have they done to her eyes?

Me: It’s an ode to Tezuka, to Manga, but unintentional on their part, I am sure…

Jennifer Lawrence: Oooh! I love her dress, but her hair…

Me: That dress is brilliant. It’s so constricting, not once has she said, ‘Besterd!’

Jennifer Lawrence: I do like Mystique’s blue body tho…

Me: Naah, we Indians have Krishna the Blue God. Krrish is politically correct. See how he gives advice to stupid kids (instead of letting his mother slap him for rescuing pigeons instead of doing math homework, and by the way, who rescues pigeons in this pigeon infested country?)! See how he submits tamely to sponsorship by flying past the brands, getting sacked from jobs at brands, consumes brands… All of which rivals branding references in Viruddh!

Patrick Stewart: Wake up Bob! Isn’t this like your vampire movies?

Robert Pattinson: Yeah. The same Zinc Oxide skin glistening effect. When the fangs materialise, wake me up.

Toby Graves: Yaar! This is very lame! Iceland bio reserves ke stock shots liye!

Me: You are speaking in Hindi!

Toby Graves: I’m speaking in tongues! Why are Krrish and Kangna skiing on the snow when he can fly? Ooh! I Like Kangna…

Stan Lee: Me too! But what is with Maanvar?

Me: Maanav plus Jaanvar equals Maanvar…

Stan Lee: *dies laughing*

We observe one minute silence for that death.

Uma Thurman: He wiggled toes! He wiggled toes! Just like the Bride does In Kill Bill!

Me: Uma! Ms Thurman! Please don’t die! Please!

We observe one minute silence

Nirupa Roy: I could have died too, but this bone marrow transplant has no emotional value like blood transfusion in Amar Akbar Anthony.

Suddenly we are interrupted by a hologram beam where Darth Vader has a message for Krrish fans. (Imagine the characteristic heavy breathing through his mask)

‘Why don’t y’all watch Empire Strikes Back? I get to tell Luke ‘I’m your father’. That’s more impactful than Vivek Oberoi’s ‘You’re my father’, no?’

Before I can gather courage to say that Krrish 3 is a celebration of 100 years of cinema, hence not a single thing is original, Darth Vader signs off. But what’s this?

Chris Nolan has just texted the whole world that he is never again going to make a Dark Knight Rises ever again after seeing the statue unveiled and statue shattered scenes. And the makers accept the resignation because Chris Nolan could never think of having a lip synched crowd song. Hans Zimmer is reported dead after hearing God, Allah Ya Bhagwan song. Chris is dead. Long live the Dark Knight.

I look at Zack Snyder with pride. See how we manages to copy Man Of Steel fight sequence? I am sorry to say that Zack was literally turned to stone (scientific term ‘petrified’) upon watching the biggest waste of CGI in his movie replicated in this movie.

Hugh Jackman has been watching quietly through the two hours and thirty two minutes of Krrish 3. I ask him, ‘Wolverine?’

Hugh Jackman: Why does Krrish hold his breath and shake each time he is on screen? Pardon me, but does he suffer from Parkinson’s?

Me: He’s shaking with anger, Wolverine!

Hugh Jackman looks at his hands. The adamantium claws emerge and he smashes his claws into his own neck.

We observe yet another minute of silence at this death. We mourn the death of originality also. Only the women in this special screening emerge: Jennifer Lawrence, Nirupa Roy, Uma Thurman and yours truly. Yes, Robert Pattinson wakes up too. He’s alive because girls across the world love him and that kept him safe. Like Harry Potter.

Kangna Ranaut deserves the only star we give to this movie. Because of her dress and her restrained acting as Kaya. Happy to report she KOs Krrish in this movie.

(due to technical difficulties on www.filmorbit.com, i'm posting the review here.)

after midnight

sometimes dirt is all you need

to mend broken feathers.

but they didn't tell you

dirt might choke you.

and no one, no one told you

about how much your chin hurts

when you fall face first

from grace.

tempestuousness is a big word

and an equally large price to pay.

this is a desert

take my skin first,

strip it away

layer by dry layer,

slowly, i want to feel the pain.

and let the sun

separate the red,

until the sands are thirsty no more.

let the dry northerly winds,

blow away strands that hold

these hollow bones,

so white these bones,

see how easily they crumble,

but will you read what's inscribed

by his quill first?

mannami goyam aanal haq,

mannami yaar ni goyak vigo,

you own me, my blue one,

but won't claim me,

send me copies of yourself,

who don't wish to claim me either.

but am still here on this path,

where a peacock feather lies

a careless clue of you.

am still here,

because the ceaseless wind

brings a refrain of your breath

from a hollow bamboo

sometimes.

in pink

you should not be so obvious

my blue one, in your gloating.

because i stand here smitten

by you smelling of juhi flowers.

all you had to do is ask.

you know i would leave everything

and show up at your doorstep,

windblown hair, heart on my sleeve,

hungry to see your smile.

i'm easy, you think,

gullible even,

malleable, like silly putty.

and still you weave an elaborate plot

have the ticket clerks in not one

but three multiplexes

tell me friday first shows are all booked!

making me believe,

i am lucky to simply walk up to your temple.

you think i don't know your tricks?

you think i don't know how much

you're missing me?

how much you need me

to be standing here,

looking slightly foolish,

and so totally lovelorn?

all you had to do is ask.

btw. you look good even in pink.

hope

jab raqueeb hee na rahe

janaaze toh uthenge,

jaakar bataa do unhe,

jo laashon ko liye phirte hain,

ab kabr mein bhi araam nahee.

in hawaaon ka zeher

is kadar zehen mein ghul gaya hai,

saans mein bhi raahat nahee.

na dawaa hai, na hua hai

ibaadat ka hee koi asar,

jiye jaa rahe hain

is chaah mein magar,

thaam loge kabhi toh

haath hamara,

padegi hum par bhi kabhi

reham ki nazar.

blueprint

under orion's gaze
when yearning turned into ache,
i died a little that night.

music died, the harvest moon did nothing,

words died, the breezes did nothing,

the earth did not open up

to swallow my pride.

the willow stopped weeping

and turned its silver tipped leaves

into whips, stripped my skin,

salt from the seas singed

of what remained.

i'm back at your doorstep,

still thirsting for you.

your clones in flesh and bone,

may distract me for a while,

and i can hear you laugh

when i bleed,

and that laugh is my strength,

and i am ready to play the clown

who has fallen in love again.

seeking

the more i yearn,
the more you laugh.
the more i chase,
the further you fly.
the more i need,
the more elusive you are.

where is my pride?
where is shame?
what is this bliss i seek?
what magic is in your name?

if only you'd pause,
you'd see, my ache,
my want, my hankering,
is only for thee.

but your eyes are closed,
your thoughts elsewhere.
i ask for but one instant,
will you open your heart for me?

to the author of the anon comment on betelnut the movie

hey anonymous!

thank you for the comment about the film. it got us back to working harder at it.

your $100 are safe in the paypal account. if you wish to take it back, you should have used your real name, and your money would have been returned to you. But you chose to send an anon comment and called us crooks. that's not cricket! tell me your real name and the money will be sent back to you.

wait

outside, it is magic hour,

inside, as i sit cross-legged,

amongst others, is pure magic.

i try to quell the questions

racing through my veins,

will you be here, will you?

will you recognize me?

will you raise that eyebrow

and gracefully acknowledge

the momentary loss of speech

and the skipping of a heartbeat,

should we come face to face?

you'd be older now, but

your perfect round bald head

would be illuminated as always

by some inner tubelight.

your eyelashes lowered to ignore

my need to see you in person.

they said you were here now.

would you be here now?

would you be sitting up there

in the front, next to the blue one,

just as i remember, just as before,

hunched over a butter lamp

coaxing the flame to burn brighter.

i should not be thus distracted

i know you would not want

me to be thus distracted

yet how easy it is to be distracted

i gather my wits, force my eyes shut

maybe then the blue one

will remind me why i am sitting here.

that's when your laughter rings

in my head. is this a new game

my blue one has created?

i allow the sweet suffocation

of incense to lure me back to prayer.

three hundred voices

begin to chant, "aummm…!"

i give in. to longing,

to desires, to yearning,

and exhale, "hmmm!"

stone

when cast with intent,
it draws blood, pain, leaves scars -
otherwise harmless.

untitled

an afternoon of laughter
with you and the swing.
i squint my eyes to see yours,
and let go.
the sunlight dappled our faces,
and the wind played with our hair.
you held me then,
and the earth and sky became one.
the season has changed,
and so have your games,
my wild and wilful Blue one.
and i should've known better.
i've chased you through shadows
and through light,
longing for the same explicit afternoon experience.
and heard your laughter
rumble through the clouds.
exhausted by all that running
and all that chasing,
i collapsed on the same summer swing.
only to discover you've been with me all along.

still Blue

my love is like camphor,
no visible flame,
but i burn,
until i am nothing.

Sweet Blue

i am not one for bhajans, but this one made everything else written about the Blue one, sort of...less. here it is, as someone wrote it. hats off!

adharam madhuram, vadanam madhuram,
nayanam madhuram, hasitam madhuram,
hridayam madhuram, gamanam madhuram,
madhuradhipate akilam madhuram.

vachanam madhuram, charitam madhuram,
vasanam madhuram, valitam madhuram,
chalitam madhuram, bhramitam madhuram,
madhuradhipate akilam madhuram.

venu madhuro, renur madhuraha,
panir madhuraha, padau madhuro,
nrityam madhuram, sakhyam madhuram,
madhuradhipate akilam madhuram.


there's more where that came from, but i'm sunk after learning just this much.

yep! there's nobody quite like you, Blue.

summer love

when i fell in love with you
i was younger, prettier and
many pounds lighter.

and you had freckles -
thousands of them, on your face
and arms and back.

i was easier to please, ready to listen,
you had dreams to dream,
and stories to share.

i had eyes only for you,
and you had beautiful green eyes
and sooty, spiky lashes.

i liked the clean woodsy smell of you,
and you liked disappearing into the woods
for many, many days.

i stayed by the sunlit stream,
skipping on the rocks, waiting for you
to emerge from the forest.

and just as easily and surely
as autumn follows summer, i fell,
out of love with you.

dialogue

"am writing a poem to love."
"is there any other kind?"
"well...i could write a piece..."
"piece? as in prose? really?"
"yeah. prose. essay. opinion."
"you joined a workshop?"
"no. do i need one?"
"that's strange. i write prose."
"for a living, yes. i know."
"presumptuous so-and-so."
"now, now. i say it as i see it."
"i've written a prose blog."
"have you written anything lately?"
"no...but i've written reviews."
"reviews? of movies? love stories?"
"no...they were not love stories."
"there you go then, love."
"hmm...a poem about love, then?"
"like i said, is there any other kind?"

night 1

dear love, how cold you are
perfect foil to my hot exhausted body,
i prefer this commune under the stars,
so sharp so blue, as if someone
had stabbed holes into the floor of heaven.

i like it because you are silent,
i like kissing your mouth
at once firm and vulnerable,
and a bit blue on the edges.

there are shadows beneath your eyes,
but i like kissing them just as i did before,
shivering with pleasure
when my lips touch your spiky lashes.

it’s good to have you all to myself.

the moon is hiding as well,
we are alone here on the thirteenth fairway,
unashamed of the unremarkable brownness
of my naked body lying next to yours,
so pale and magnificent,
so hard and unyielding,

i allow a sigh to disturb
this companionable silence,
it will be years before they call you topsoil.

love poem 2

little things about you i like to keep:

the way your hair curls upon your neck
when you throw your head back and laugh,

how my glasses slide off my nose and yours don’t,
'it’s a noble nose!' my aunt always says,

your large hands on the steering wheel,
i love the way they feel on the small of my back,

i am so glad for the pickling lessons,
grandma insisted i take as a teen.
i have made good use of the jam jars
she stocked in the garage
hoping the mango would yield some day.

your nose still looks as sharp in vinegar,
and your hands still look clean,
but your heart remains as black as ever.

but best part is that look in your eyes,
when i raised the ginsu,
on that dappled afternoon by the stream.

does not fit in any jar but is fresh even today
perfectly preserved in my head.

love poem 1

my fingers ache to soothe
the flyaway hair on your neck,
and when you reassure me
we’re not speeding,
i simply close my eyes,
and let the bike embrace the wind.

you never read a map,
and i always know the way,
but this time i let you guide me
to download love songs off the net.

smitten with him? you ask.
i want to say, yes moron, with you.
but i laugh and let it be.

not yet, not yet. my fingers are crossed
let me enjoy this for a bit longer
it’s my moment. don’t want to give happiness
some one else’s address.

i’m collecting pictures for later,
i explain on gtalk.
magic seeds i plant now for later,
when you’re mature and i've learnt to feel
instead of thinking so much.

i stab at the keyboard to reach you
hope you will walk to me
just as i picture you walking to meet me.
and then watch me exhale.

worth

one hundred and twenty four thousand prophets
until your heart became a slate for surah after holy surah
the faithful recite five times a day even today.
how young you must have been, how alone,
was there anyone who understood the pain
Gibreel’s quill inflicted upon your heart?
was there anyone who could wipe away the blood?
was there blood spilt upon the sands?
your heart must’ve been so big, to include it all,
a reflection of everything He is.

i have picked up a little book of the verses
abridged appropriately for weekend seekers
maybe one lifetime won’t be enough
to align my desires to His plans
how did you surrender when i find it tough even to bow
i begin to wonder , was i born for this?

not now, darling!

it’s not convenient that you die now,
do you understand?
you haven’t noticed but we’ve had wars.
friends divided over loyalties to henry and rose,
who fought bitterly over cds and books
and unused kishko cutlery sets,
but were happy to see sarah go in the spca van
dilip was finally incarcerated for hitting jane,
but only because we intervened,
and stayed night after sleepless night in vigil
at her side, trying to get the blood stains off the love seat,
playing U2 and Nirvana to drown dilip's rage
as he hurled the garden gnomes at the oak,
howling outside, high on jealousy.
sammy lost an eye battling brush fire
and then lost his job, and we’ve all taken turns
taking care of bobby and sonya,
while he’s stood the dole queues
hoping nobody would notice him.
my days are numb from carrying trays
of six-egg omelets and gravy,
the night shifts have left me not a single minute to think
about broken nails and straw hair and coffee gone cold.

tina told us about the rejection letter and your drunken binge
that has lasted three months and how the doctor was surprised
to see your tequila riddled pancreas still working.
so don’t tell me you are dying now,
dying, giving up the ghost, kicking the bucket
because your muse has been unkind to you.
i have exhausted empathy, have no words of comfort,
am tired to the bone and quite empty of tears.
and white my dear, has never been my color.

Slam

stand up. stand up.
face the drunken sods,
say, ‘fuck you, Krishna’
in free verse or rhyme.
it could mean inclusion tomorrow,
among page three poets,
and one free whiskey now.

my throat is parched,
my fingers aching
to clutch that cold glass
of iced amber fire.

the girl in the silver lace dress
has been looking at me
as if she would be warmth.
if only i could move my cold feet
and break a principle or two.

Good Intentions 2.

you again?
haven’t i told you
i don’t want to be
your good deed for the day?

of course i’ve been weeping.
the irrawady dolphins
have depleted, sad, no?
see, it says so on the newspaper
i’ve stuck on the windows.
oh that’s for the sun.
he insists on intruding.
see that beam there? laserlike.
searching for proof
just like you.
so you can send me away.
i won’t let you, you know.

sure, my friends are here
they’ve retreated in the shadows.
they know you won’t try too hard.
you have to pick up Tina
from her dance lesson in twenty minutes.

don’t look at me like that!
i haven’t lost my mind you know
i’ve just let some friends in there.
i was so lonely after he left me.
yes, i did run after him
from the kitchen to the front door,
in my news stilletoes,
i was chopping cabbage for coleslaw;
“don’t leave me!” i cried,
but he was in a hurry, i suppose,
why wait when love has gone?
i think i must’ve tripped,
when i lunged for the door,
"don’t leave me!" i said, he left
three and a half fingers
of his right hand,
i’ve kept them safe
right there, in the butter dish.

Good Intentions

Oh it’s you again?
Come in if you must.
But don’t look at me this way!
There’s no need to let so much sunlight in!
What did you say?
Oh that! Yes, yes,
The pain is filling up the cracks quite well, thank you.
I would get out of these ex-pink pajamas,
And walk down with you towards a macchiato,
But the elevator has turned hostile.
It says: ‘five persons at a time only’.
You know I have been playing host,
You know I cannot abandon them here,
Just because you show up, with an hour to kill
Hoping I will gladly be your Thursday afternoon good deed.
No, no! Don’t throw the cups into the garbage.
How can you throw them simply because an ear is missing?
Because the rim is chipped?
I shall clean up later.
I don’t mind that pizza slice sitting on the table.
If I don’t understand its loneliness, who will?
But I haven’t been lonely, no!
The voices have been company, of sorts,
And I assure you there’s room for more.
I don’t want to go out for a fresh dose of traffic fumes.
You see, they don’t want me out there.
The stop lights hurry me away by freezing on ‘go’,
Even the usually bothersome eunuchs ignore me.
No soot-colored hand will sell me cheap Chinese toys.
If I should idly dial 2-6-4-0-7-3-8-3,
The girl would say, “Yes. We make bean bags
But they are meant for people full of ‘em,
Not for some woman who wonders why
There’s a gap between the letters ‘wel’ and ‘come’
On the rear windshields of taxi cabs.
"My head is occupied, trust me,
I am doing just fine.
So do me a favor dear, please draw the blinds
And shut the door quietly behind you.

jacuzzi

once upon a time,
this would have been,
a david lynch scene:
pale white on white
and blue roses mourning.
should i add calming salts
i wonder, as i slide in.
thirteen months of being alone
has made me somewhat pale,
the knife offers a flash of reflection
but no second thoughts,
this must be the way
to quiet sighless waters.

request

please blink.
you look too directly
into my head.
there are thoughts there,
that must remain thoughts,
they cannot become words
between us.

please blink.
you look too directly
at my heart.
it changes the familiar tattoo
and i stumble, dancing.
across the room you smile
those eyes fixed
in their intent.

please blink.
you look too directly
at me.
it sears my skin
dry, traps the words
inside my throat
i stand inarticulate
to your suggestion.
you raise a silent toast
you know how i feel.

please blink.
you look too directly
at me.

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?

For Keta

I miss this beautiful girl...

http://worldwidehelp.blogspot.com/2005/12/remembrance-week-26th-december-2005.html

It's Billy the Kid!

Thank you all for helping with the wonderful suggestions. The puppy's vet Dr. Karkare loved each one of them, and wonders if he could keep the name suggestions in his name bank.

Sanjana, thank you for mentioning Fibbles and Tweedle, as the names took me back to Enid Blyton days. Doodle is my friend Rishi's pup in Miami and it drives everyone dizzy by running full tilt all over his garden.

Dinesh, your cue on Amitabh Bachchan had us all watching the Amitabh Bachchan movies on tv (we were on the phone all night as the movie was played!) .

Suniti, you more than anyone else has helped me stay rooted, hearing me blab on about puppies and separation from their mothers, so have no words to say thank you.

David, Vanilla Bean is a cool name!

Hey anonymous! Classical suggestions like Charulatha, Troy, Taramati compared well with Vikramaditya and Bajarangbali and Ghatotkach, but your suggestion of Chiquita had friends call the poor pup Bababanana (in the manner of Barbapapa).

Townreporter, i dont know if mash has wronged you in any way, but this is an innocent pup you are helping name. such a pity you make so much room for venom in your heart, when the Blue one offers nothing but love. you too are made in his image, so please accept my namaskaar to you.

It was a daunting task, but the kind Vet helped us through the names. The puppy responded to Mirza, Billy, Baajirao and of course Ghonchu. Sunil Mohite, who got us this beautiful pup from the Breeder Mr. Vidya Ratan of Pune, was calling him Baajirao, but the puppy merely raised half an eyebrow on hearing 'Baaji'. The Doc and I loved the idea of calling him Mirza, but he would not even offer us that half eyebrow. Ghonchu he responded to was too silly to contemplate so mash was voted down. That left Billy.

So Billy it is. A tribute to all the Westerns one has read when growing up. A tribute to the dreams of riding with the winds and inspecting fences. A tribute to a character at once hated and at once loved...

Billy the Kid, it is. You are welcome to come and bless the puppy!

Have a wonderful Christmas, and a new year filled with Bliss.

Thank you all for being so kind.

baby and dad (iii)

 

baby and dad (ii)

 

baby and dad

 

my new baby

thank you Suniti for taking pics of my new baby. we are having a tough time naming him. he has inspired many. his dad (mahesh), shashanka ghosh, and his doc loves the idea of calling him William Lee, in short, 'bill-lee'. peter griffin has offered 'mirza' or 'ghalib' or 'slinky'. the last one inspired by the spiral staircase in my house and the flight of his imagination which can be described as 'tumble down puppy horror flick'. on similar lines, rashmi mukhi offers 'flip'. since the puppy is only 40 days old and still hasn't found its orientation, walks in reverse gear, mash also calls him 'ghonchu'. suniti and i love the idea of kissing the puppy called 'depp'. (and our mind images vanished the moment pete suggested having to 'clean up after depp'). jugal offered several south park crossed with science names...and my sleep deprived brain does not remember any of the names except that i laughed much.

agni wanted to call it einstein or beyblade before the puppy arrived. after the big arrival and we got cameras trained on agni for his first reaction (we expected sqeals and hugs), we found agni lifting tail etc and inspecting the pup. we lowered the cameras and tried to quell what we thought was his curiosity. but he asked me with a straight face, "mommy, where is his plug point?"

"what plug point?"

"So we can connect it to the computer?" Upon seeing the horror on our faces, he added an explanation,"So we can train it, naa!"

our next vacation is going to be on a farm.


suniti has kindly offered to share the pics of my baby with all of you:
help with names please. and soon.

http://photobucket.com/albums/y191/suniti/Ghochun/

game

looks like you had time,
time on your hands,
my Blue one,
you play such games
with me!

if you thought
any name,
other than yours,
made any sense to me,
you lost!

if you thought
the merry dance
you led me to
would make me lose
faith in you,
try harder!

you’re toying with me
my Blue one
but i am stupid
all i know
is your name,
nothing else matters.

i inhale because of you
exhale when you want me to.
i win because of you.
if i lose, why worry,
i lose only to you.

how we change...

for as long as i can remember, i have always lit a candle on Bruce Lee's birthday...until yesterday.

my keyboard is soggy now. and have walked around with the jeet kune do hand book all day.

it's a change from wandering about the house talking to the Blue one all day, i guess.

contagious

stay away from me,
all you rational folk!
for i have caught a fever
that won’t go away.

smell my burning skin.
my flesh consumed by desire,
turning slowly to ash,
to be blown away at his whim.

watch this fever race
through my veins,
turning everything blue
in its wake.

feel the anger,
fueled by the fever,
i tremble as i rage,
how much longer
do i need to grovel?

you will hear me no more
whispering his name,
again and again.
this fever is brought on
by his cursed name.

a name that tastes bittersweet,
honey to my thirsty lips.
what would become of me
should he choose
to hold me in his arms?

it is quiet tonight...

ice from my veins
flows so blue on to my palm,
you cut deep, my love,
and i know the count
by heart.

your every look,
your every touch,
your every thought,
is reflected in the cold
betrayal cupped in my hands.

don’t be afraid,
i wont tell anyone.
it’s all right now,
see? sleep envelops me.
in her comforting arms
i will be warm again.

bubble

take soap, mix water,
take hanger,
dip in bucket,
blow gently,
wear it at once.
it will go far with you.

i wish people with bubbles
would share their bubbles,
with people who tried
this simple recipe and failed,
just for a little while
maybe,
exchange places.

difficult you say?
impossible even?
bubbles are custom made
as tough to share,
as fingerprints,
or dna even,
a bubble is sacred
designed to protect
only the one person
it was created for.

then why do some people
have them and some not?
why do some suffer so,
and some float through life
protected?

i hate you for the bubble
that keeps you safe,
hate you for not sharing
that safe space,
hate you hiding from storms...

but dammit, it also keeps you
from hugs that could have been yours,
had i been the kind who hugs.

so i am going shopping
maybe i shall find a pin
or maybe i shall find myself
a great big bubble to call my own.



(acknowledge EC's bubble and my envy of the same)

That's Him

soppy

togetherness is catching.

i have started to string
words, just like you do.

hunch my tired shoulders,
exactly as you.

and raise my hands
to cover my eyes
at the end of day,
just like you do.

i also hold on to that phone
as if it were an anchor
connecting me
to some ridiculous reality
as you.

so am hoping
somewhere along this journey
you too find yourself
doing things
just the way i do.

no body

horizontal wrist,
vertical line,
with the ginsu
saved for the
occasion, for the
perfect cut.

bare bottom.
bare back.
feels cool
on the marble floor.
room lit by
flickering neon
from neighborhood
chinese takeaway.

watch,
watch,
watch,
the warmth
pool.

morning

is this my home?
pillows everywhere
except on the bed,
sheets embarrassingly
entangled, uneaten pizza
and champagne,
chocolate on
white Egyptian cotton...

oh is this me?
in a curtain,
and a smile,
and miles of ache,
and sighs to match?

the lillies still smell fresh
i sink into the big
yellow chair
and hug myself.

so it is true!
the ones you hold
in your eternal embrace
also turn blue?

soul flake

attempting to write fiction...on a blog called 'soul flake'.

some of you asked me why i had not posted a link to the blog. technically challenged people ought not to be punished so...and by friends too.

here goes: www.soulflake.blogspot.com

sky people

i used to be like you
wary of those
wayside wanderers,
scared
of their manic mutterings,
their tattered appearance
was distasteful.

i would cringe too,
exactly as you just did,
afraid to catch their germs
hated the smell
that would linger
long after our paths crossed.

but i’ve been touched
by the Blue one now you see,
and i guess most of you
who now cross my path
miss me completely.

you saw me stare at the sky,
bump into street lamps,
you rolled your eyes,
and crossed the street.

you spotted me,
in deep conversation
at crowded coffee shops
and thought me strange.

you did not see him at all!
all you heard was muttering,
you thought too much coffeecino
had driven me crazy.

you bumped into me
at the bookshop,
my nose buried
(literally)
in a brand new
book of love poems,
you moved away
a patronizing smile later.

you don’t know,
how he smells of nutmeg,
of snow lillies,
and the elusive clean
of new books.

i am sorry i missed
the questions
your eyebrow raised.
would i really care
if the sun and the wind
were roughing up my body?

the stars in my eyes,
and the occupant
of my heart, leave no room,
for anyone or anything else.

flu season

use.
and throw.
use.
and throw.
use.
and throw.
use.
and throw.
use.
and throw.

how little it matters
to you, my friend,
whether it’s kleenex
or people.

raw

i feel positively
unpoetic,
because i want you so.

its not just skin.
the need goes deeper
its pace is inelegant
crazed? i don’t know.
but there it is,
frantic, directionless.

this mortal need
to hear your laughter
in the hollow of my bones
once again
is driving irrational
thoughts deeper
into my head.

it feels as good as
that usually uncouth gesture
when one drives
the pointing finger,
manic, and unheeding
of any warning,
uncaring of damage,
into the ear.
to scratch rapidly
that unseen
but heartfelt itch.

it is as satisfying as
that demented stretch
of the neck,
and with closed eyes
curling the tongue
to smoothen
the raw edges
inside the throat, when
voicing your forbidden name.

platitudes

trophy boys don’t ask,
are you bleeding?
don’t call to ask,
do you breathe?

trophy boys should not care
if cold cuts of accusations,
so cruelly served,
on a platter of silence,
were fatal or not.

trophy boys should
stay safe, nine to five,
in a predictable world.

it’s a risk to be out there,
wayward women
might tell all,
in drunken giggly fits.

or the conspiracy
of the stars,
might just reveal,
how angels get drunk
on chocolate
and forgot to fly.

no, no don’t bother
to translate pixels
on the screen
into casual concern.

nothing will happen to you
no finger pointing.
no languishing and decaying
nothing will happen

take comfort in your safety,
and uncross those fingers.
mouth those mundane
‘hello, how are yous’
only when you are ready,
really ready to hear the truth.

cleaning up after

she was gone. dead. buried.
with no one mourning her.
the cleaning crew
for muchos dolleros
came in to clean house.

they could've dumped it all
in gallon cans
for a curbside pickup.
but one of the chaps,
an aquarian with a pony tail,
stumbled upon a thought.

a tiny random one,
but not unfamiliar to him.
did she fill holes
with memories too?
so they all sat down,
and used six work days
to sift through them all.

the brown button on a khaki shirt
the crease upon a brow
the remnants of a laugh
the touch of roving hands

ghost text messages
and used coffee spoons
napkins used to mark
the tyranny of waiting

mental pictures of shared sunsets
and accounting of tears
a bill book of anguishes
a notebook of fears

would anyone else understand
the need to remember
gestures, words, promises?

they could fill boxes of those
but who could want them now?

the clean-up crew knew
one day upon a distant landfill
these and many other
hoarded desires would flower.
and the earth would smell
of nutmeg and coffee,
of honeysuckle and lillies again.

why blue m&ms are blue

have been sitting right here,
under the dappled sky,
solving little mysteries
of this thing called life.

see the vastness of the sky?
it includes all the flaws,
of this erring earth,
of the faltering moon,
even the lying promises
of distant glimmering stars.

sink into the deep of the ocean,
with me, if i don’t cling
to treacherous breath,
it will accept everything,
your bonds, my insanity
it can turn us blue.

ever close your eyes
and hear the eternal lover
play a tune? He’s blue too.
when love shattered me
into a thousand crystal faces,
each reflecting your color,
he scooped me up,
made me safe. whole. blue.

so close your eyes
and kiss me now,
share this blue m&m.
it’s a sweet universe
in a bite of chocolate.

Complaint

every morning i see my love
and sit him down,
for extended complaints,
over creamy Malabar Monsoon.

(he doesn’t always listen,
he's distracted by my singing anklets,
but i sit him down nonetheless,
and open my heart for him.)

sometimes my love,
i think you’re here
only because of the coffee.
i complain, daring an answer.

he laughs, and emboldened
by the kindness I hear,
i stop him from spooning sugar.
the spilt grains of sweetness
melt in my tears.

where were you
when the motorbike boys,
put wind in my hair
and drove me away from you
at thought deafening speeds?

where were you when
the drummer boy played
fast and loose with
what i thought was my heart?

or when the traveler
carried me away
across sunsets and moonrises,
but could not reach
the far corners of my mind?

don’t you dare smile
and give me an answer
that you always do.
they were shallow waters,
and i was but learning to swim.

if indeed they were, and i was,
tell me why you wait now?
when my heart is truly touched
by one who laughs
just the way you do?
by one who makes soul renting promises
you know he will never keep?

tell me how much further
do i fall, until you save me
from myself?

how much longer
do i have to wait?
how much do i suffer
before you deem me worthy
of your eternal embrace?
before you color me Blue?




(malabar monsoon is a wonderful new coffee i have recently discovered...)

brb

when you put me on hold,
i counted the beeps,
i sang silly songs,
imagined how long
it would take, for
strange roots to grow
from my palm
into the phone.
but I waited
to hear your breath
on the other side
of the earpiece.
you see, you had promised
to set me free.

the coins ran out,
and so did the time.
i held on foolishly,
allowed the anguishes
to simmer before they grew,
and then came the pain.
it racked my soul
ribboned it
and flung it afar.
buffeted by pitiless winds of logic
it was strung out to hang
on a shabby string of trust
like torn Tibetan prayer flags.

you didn't see how the phone cord
rebelled at my patience
and strangled my wrist,
my neck, my desires,
and drowned me
in the vast blue
of the endless waiting.

the gods were jealous
when they knew i wanted
a mere mortal more.
'you've been used!
'your faith is pointless!
they said, then
they rejected me,
offered me no haven
no respite, no rest...

i've wandered since,
looking for a place to hide,
where no knowing laughter
would mock my foolish effort
to pause that fraction in time
when you said, 'brb'.

Krishna

they say, "he's dark,
your Krishna.
dark as the stormy night
he was born."

i used to turn away,
had no answer
to their taunts.
wondered why
others were made so fair.

the years have passed,
and I've stopped looking
at people, at their gods,
and learned to look inside.
i know now, why, my Krishna,
you are the dark one.

so great is your love for me,
to cleanse my soul,
from its darkness
you took on its colors
and made me new.

not your cup

leave the loving
for us insane ones.
go build a white picket fence,
and save your little house.

being in love, my love,
is not your cup of joe.

it's no decaf americano,
this love,
it's dark, mysterious, sweet,
it drives you to lick cream
off plastic spoons
eyes closed, oblivious
of stares, ignorant of
'what ifs' and 'buts'.

at its darkest, it's desire.
a free fall from the sky
into white waters
that end in a whirlpool.
and you don't know how to swim.

at its lightest, it's caring.
watching the waves on a beach
lit only by a thousand fireflies
waiting for the sliver moon to set.

it's bitter too, and addicting.
there are no time outs
in this ritual dance
of two steps forward, one back,
holding close to let go,
and letting go to meet once again.
delicious storms in the coffee cup.

so, you, my traitorous one,
can go dilute some other
espresso. come back
when you've learnt to drink deep
from this coffee cup
called insanity.

-----------------

i have had this saved as a draft for ages...outgrew it, i guess. but here it is.

five seconds of fame

http://Manisha.Lakhe.famousstar.de/


as i look at the production schedule in my hands, looks like i am in the motion picture business.

i plan to blog the entire process...so watch this space!

I’m breaking this habit,
Of kissing you in my dreams.
For when I do,
I wander through my day
On autopilot,
Smiling at appliances,
Bumping into closed doors.

Even turning the pages,
Of a newspaper spread
on the cold morning floor,
(lying on my tum),
Becomes an explicit experience.

Just the other day,
I stood under the shower
Re-living the dream,
Until the city water supply
Announced a crisis.

When the coffee that was touched
By dark, bitter chocolate
Touched my lips,
and I exhaled your name,
Friends turned into enemies,
And left the table.
And our favorite coffee shop.
Turned into one giant
Neon-lit fantasy.

I ought to drop my high heels,
And take to running shoes,
Write ‘I’m sorry’ notes,
To friends and family.

Stop laughing at my confession!
Don’t even think about
Offering a spoonful
Of the whipped delight
Of your cappuccino.
Your grin is bad enough
To weaken my resolve.

A trip to the mall

I’m buying self esteem at the mall,
Look at me and say you’re fine,
Says the damned mirror on the wall!

The boyfriend dumped me after all,
Makeover to hide that too bright shine,
I’m buying self esteem at the mall.

When will you use the lace, doll?
You’re wasting time, stop that whine,
Says the damned mirror on the wall!

I’m hoping against odds he’ll call,
Or message me to say he’s mine.
I’m buying self esteem at the mall.

Your eyes did sparkle, you did walk tall,
He was a mistake, try calvin klein!
Says the damned mirror on the wall!

Visa’s loyal, although he’s awol,
Go out, get drunk from nine to nine.
I’m buying self esteem at the mall,
Says the damned mirror on the wall!

Its a Villanelle!

You don’t want me to say, ‘I love you!’
But your smile says you can relate,
Tell me what I should then do?

You bring me joy, I’m living anew,
I found love, and you want me to wait?
You don’t want me to say, ‘I love you!’

Knowing that you reciprocate,
Drunk on kisses, just see my state,
Tell me what I should then do?

This drunkenness, if only you knew,
Is a reason to live, yet, my mate,
You don’t want me to say, ‘I love you!’

You do not see my point of view,
You do not believe it’s a thing of fate,
Tell me what I should then do?

I hoard but one desire, that’s you,
But you insist I get over this state.
You don’t want me to say, ‘I love you!’
Tell me what I should then do?