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?

honest effort!

how unfortunate can one get!
step in front of a bus,
its brakes are working fine.
no nudge, no fall.
only angry commuters,
and muddy clothes.
death would have been
a mere hiccup
in their everyday lives.

step out on the ledge.
realize one is not wearing
matching underwear,
so step back in.
malt is borrowed courage,
but doesn't drown
ingrained Cosmo rules.

walk beside the churning seas,
with an intent to walk into them
and never look back.
but self styled baywatch bhais,
drag me out, wet,
and my hair is so fucked!
oil streaks, sand and beach debris.

see, it was easy enough to
destroy my words
that go with my name,
the delete key proved very handy.
but you want silence,
complete silence.
but each time i close my eyes
i feel your arms around me,
and my plans are postponed
for the next moment without you.

i'm trying, i'm trying hard
(cross my heart!)
to give you the silence you asked.
just that damned love keeps
getting in the way.

wishes

wish i could steal
your laughter to add to
my hoarded desires.

wish i could sneak
into your head
and plant dreams

wish i could walk
in the rain with you
like once before

wish i could
offer you silence
without missing you.



(credit for phrase 'hoarded desires' goes to khuto. wish i had thought it up.)

khisiani now

Every time I open the bloody newspapers, sunday or otherwise, I come across the whiskey set complaining how tough it is to get home from the airport in this rainy water-clogged season. i bet if he were asked to donate the money that he spends on just one bottle of whiskey towards a 'take your city in your own hands' program, he would be the first to slink away in the shadows where he really truly belongs.

i am a nobody but i am going to give it a try. i am going to start this process of finding out how many people are ready to not put up with the bullshit the BMC feeds us any more. fed up with rubbish that we are fed day after soggy day about everything.

if you happen to read this and have ideas, share.

am usually mild mannered. but right now i am wagging an angry tail.

turn to shah rukh

have chased,
connections.
have trusted,
laughter.
have discovered,
desire.
have found,
expression.
have given,
oneself...

hey! stop right there.
who asked you?
who forced you?
don't whine now.
about desires,
about connections,
and don't even mention
that overused word
called 'lurrve'.

its a game, you know.
and you're getting
boringly predictable.
if you can't play the game
step out, save yourself.
besides,
you're too old,
and look needy.
that's pathetic, you know.

so no writing
lovelorn lyrics,
on ridiculous blogs,
about passionate kisses
on rainy afternoons.

get yourself a haircut,
and shiny dupattas,
for flowery salwaars.
go join a kitty party,
and have very loud
fatty aunty lunches.
and watch shah rukh
bathe topless
in inane movies.