For a moment I felt like a relic

One day, two little girls aged seven and six knocked on my door. Being the youngest in the colony, the elder kids usually avoided playing with them. That afternoon, they came around knocking every flat to ‘check’ where the other kids were ‘hiding’. Since I, in my late twenties, was all by myself, they were willing to be gracious enough to play with me if I let them in.

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The moment they stepped in, they were fascinated by the sight of an hour-glass. To cut the story short, I told them that people in the olden days used it instead of a 'watch'. I should have said, ‘Clock’. Befitting her age the seven year old promptly asked me in a dragging tune, “Is this what you used when you were in school?"

Cinderella's shoes

When life was all about

what no one wanted to hear

eyes dreamed.

Feet groped.

Dawn bored.

Reflection remained a shadow

without a face

Life weighed heavy

waiting to break

Crude hope drew away

Imminent despair made its way.

When all second chances

were thought to be exhausted,

Will conquered reason

Made ‘Fairy Godmother’ appear

even within walls

where no one could hear.

Shoes could find their soles

covering the misery yet untold

With a pumpkin for a chariot set to roll

What rat would not take to its feet

over scraps of cheese

passing off as noble steed.

Charm of a misfit

will always catch the attention

of prying eyes

While rags in riches will linger

as long as the curfew does not mind.

Sneak-peak at life’s reward

does not last long

whereas the truth about life

lies in the shoes held-on.

The curfew breaks

when the pumpkin begins to show

that it was always a pumpkin

and nothing more

Now that the cheese is done

What rat would stay behind

and that’s when the clock strikes midnight.

Dazzled by what life can offer

In exchange to a simple dare

Too dazed to realize

a hidden shoe is incomplete

without its pair,

revokes the old life back

with twice the worries

to care.

The hunters on the prowl

Are more merciful than the shoe

Letting even the finest half-wit

Try it.

Wriggle in it,

Squirm to fit.

Every shoe will meet its occasion!

Then,

there will be shoes for every occasion!!

Flats.

Kitten heels.

Stilettos.

Truth is, what is good for the highs

is good for the lows

As for the secret of your journey

the ‘secret of success’

Only your shoes know.

finished on 8 September 2009

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All is fair while shopping

It’s pulsating every time I’m in the heart of the city. This time I remain focused and am determined to stick to the list. Just to make sure I get a decent dingy corner to park my scooter, I skip breakfast. So, by the time I come out of the alley, food stalls are warming up with steaming idlis and dosas - not my favourites anyway. I keep walking as the shops slowly wake up until one of them unveils the greatest temptress of all – S-I-L-K. Pleated like the palm leaves, the sight of silk drives me straight through the glass door. The white stuffed ramp is all set for the holy diva-wear to glisten under the white lights. And the show begins…

Quite marvelous, how a five and a half metre material can be bound by a piece of white twine. I pick red for a start, a colour that usually stands out on a rack. The shopkeeper gently unfastens the twine only to flaunt the weaver’s prowess. I then pick maroon, and then orange, and then yellow, and then… take it from me… every sari is a breathtaking performance. Thoroughly drenched in temptation, I try one sari after another to check if the sari gets the better of me, or if the sari complements me. Right now, with so many shades I’m convinced that the weaver is a crude prankster.

Buying a sari is no common shopping. There is more to buying a sari than merely paying the price on the tag. You have to win a battle. While I am lost in the rainbow I feel a tug while the very sari I’m holding is flowing out of my hand. Two women, oblivious to my existence, snatch the sari out of my hand. So typical! What seemed like an endless ordeal, in a split second made me decide that these women were stealing ‘my sari’. I knew I was outnumbered but numbers don’t make an army. There was a tug of war right in front of the eyes of the nonchalant shopkeeper. After a series of rude exchanges the ‘wise Solomon’ realized that I finally made my pick and declared me the ‘Victor’. With great pride I paid my bill and walked out with my prized possession.

As I manage finally to find my scooter, I wait…baffled…Did I even set out to buy a sari!?!

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Medley

Inhale

the aroma of exotic dishes

the fumes from the cremation fields;

the fragrance of flowers in the garden

and the smoke from the crimson streets.

Lose the music sheets

Old tunes evoke memories

Rehearsals numb.

Don’t name the symphony

it is ours

we take the euphony back to where it came from

we take it home.

The aroma was from our kitchen

The fumes from our ancestral fields

But the smoke from the crimson streets

Harass the fragrance of existence.

21 November 2007

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from Carbon to Crystal

Beneath layers,

each eventually calloused

burdened with heaviness

lies protected the coveted carbon.

Light years later, the black boots arrive

dig through the hardened piles

opening the wounds healed by time.

Long after the fire tamed

and the warmth forgotten

fresh flames merely polish carbon

to shine like crystal.

3 February 2007

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Olive

The sound from the mustard grains

with terrible marvel crossing shores

Commands silence.

The puppet mimes their hideous noise

Ignorant, sands hide secrets

better than the home of her turquoise.

In the battle between the breath of passion

and the breath of survival

The soldier in the warrior’s land

dies in wilderness.

21 November 2007

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A fish’s flight

A little over twelve years

day after day

a school of fish is trained to fly.

The curriculum built on an eccentric’s delusion

never addresses the rift

between the sea and the sky.

The privileged pursue the slimy illusion

the humbled native has a salty reservation.

The syllabus begins with spelling ‘fins’

W-I-N-G-S

and then the disillusion begins.

Through the blurry waters and the blazing sun

the mirage crossing the sky

is the vision of a fish flying by.

26 November 2007

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this is how much I love you

You were conceived in me

Way before I was

My true child this is why I love you.

I have nursed you

more with vengeance and pride

My true child this is why I love you.

You wild untamed wench

Your animistic world

is built with my animosity

My true child this is why I love you.

You have played in the fields

of luscious memories and worst nightmares

of terrible thoughts and paranoia

My true child this is why I love you.

You have grown full well

You have ripened now

You have the strength to embrace

My true child this is why I love you.

You look dandy

Draped in fear and wrath

Even better in rage and lust

My true child this is why I love you.

Your tears are tarnished

with love and losses

over spilt blood and hissing fossils.

My true child this is why I love you.

You will never sleep

You are bestowed with eternal awakening

No song of mine could crumple you more

My true child this is why I love you.

If you think you suffer more than I do

You are wrong. I look into your eyes

All the time. I see what you see

You haunt me when I am wide awake

The constant longing

The constant pining

I’ve stretched my arms far too long

It hurts. If only I could reach you

Just once….

……………..

……………...

Nothing else could hurt me more.

………………

This is how much I love you.

Stay still. Wait here.

My womb cringes

My perversity swells

You are not a gift

You are my responsibility that’ll never be born

An aneurism that curbs my want

You my true child are my magic charm.

10 November 2002

(from the red file)

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Riddle

Hark! Virtues bugled and vice murmured

Thus the sermon begins with,

“Dearly beloved, we have gathered”

While all minds may not be at ease

tradition warns to hold one’s peace

lest a bad omen the tongue should release.

Doubts don’t creep if the bells toll

to mark the beginning at heaven’s door

for it sounds the same to beckon hell’s hole.

Curious rather about “who’s next?” has already started.

though tears are shed to the dearly departed.

The riddle does not lie

in choosing between the eternal and the ephemeral.

But tell me: where am I?

In a wedding or a funeral?

If heaven and hell is your cue

Think again

Does it not hold good to the newly weds too?

13 October 2008

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