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