Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Been away for a bit. Stuck in a morass of work right now. But I wrote this as part of what started out as Choliwali Chronices and is fast becoming my life-work. Hehehe. It doesn't make much sense here (it doesn't make much sense in the original either) but I couldn't imagine writing a 55er and not posting it here. Apologies for all the nonsense :)
Monday, July 30, 2007
Thinking she won’t notice
Secretly hoping she will
So secret, he won’t even admit to himself
She feels his look
Like sunlight, warm on her cheeks
Her eyes stay downcast
Shielded from his blinding gaze
Warmed nevertheless by its intensity
Then it starts to rain.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
His helplessness grew. It consumed him. He heart felt heavy and it weighed him down. ‘It's moved closer to my stomach’, he thought, ironically amused.
Helplessness. He wrote it in the air making the‘s’s nice and loopy. He drew it again. In a circle surrounding him as he whirled around. He laughed. Again. And again.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
“My father….you see, this is my father” he stammered.
The lady nodded and stamped ‘24’!
In the ‘Missing’ column,
a father- numbered!
Then one day, she skipped breakfast and bade a teary farewell to parents.
Soon she pulled out the pre-selected saree and brought the stool near the fan before she ran out of
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Then she discovered writing
English grammar compositions
Stories and poetry
Letters and emails
Chats and instant messaging
SMSes, orkut scraps
Resumes and reports
Then she stumbled onto blogging
And anonymous posting
Even editing and deleting
And much later, private publishing
But silence is yet to be learnt.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
You washed up my shore
Like a bottle with a message, once more
But it hasn’t been long
Yet it seems so wrong
A recycled kiss
Something, terribly amiss
The cigarette smoke
With your signature stroke
As my soul retreats
Your audible heart-beats
Give the midnight hour a shake
But, can we remake?
Monday, July 16, 2007
In an old shoe-box, with little slits lived Lady Birdie.
A peck here, a pull with her beak there revealed the sepia toned world outside. Of a small unkempt room, a worn-out couch, lots of paper, records, bottles, shoes and what not.
In that year of insignificance, she’d still not given up on the Sky!
[Hai tujhe bhi ijaazzat, karle tu bhi mohabbat……from the film Life..in a Metro]
Paper rustling, excitement tinged with apprehension
Glittering, blinding.. sheer intoxication
I can’t accept this, it’s too expensive!
So what? It’s just money.
Too much of it!
It doesn’t matter, there’s plenty.
When it is about something else,
that matters more,
even if there’s very little of it,
I’ll be delighted to accept.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
I wanted to believe you would win?
The black raven's song, a caress, shoddy shades of clotting blood.
The Bottle, broken like shattered dreams.
The trembling heart. Closed my eyes.
Did not wish to see. Lived in an illusion.
Some thoughts, invented. Placed carefully. Built a new world of intangible thoughts.
I wanted to believe.
The song is called Suicide Note by Johnette Napolitano.
I am too lazy to hoist the song here, if one wants to hear it. Leave a message, I shall mail it to you.
Or are you looking over my shoulder to see if someone better comes along?
I keep my eyes open,
checking if you close your eyes!
How come you don’t trust me?
Because you don’t trust me.
How do you figure that?
Because you ask too many questions!
Splatch! It spatters down his clean (too clean she thinks) face
Then she sits back to sip her drink
But it makes her choke
...she thinks in panic
And so the loquacious one is silenced
But it wasn’t fair play!!
Are her final unspoken words
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Sometimes, she rides on the crest of the wave like the Chinese dragon-rider from her childhood. She loses count of day and time, flying with the moist breeze.
Sometimes, she somehow wants to whip and push the day, the week, the month with all her might waiting for an oasis which never appears.
Only sometimes, though.
Sometimes, she wonders what if she just vanishes, one day, like those on the ‘missing’ columns in the newspaper. Or perhaps like the Cheshire Cat, from feet upwards till only her words remain choked mid- air.
Sometimes, she wonders what her epitaph will say. Will anyone come for her funeral?
And then she shudders.
Only sometimes, though.
Sometimes the world watches her from afar like an unknown symptom.
Sometimes they try pricking, tapping where the glass has a weak turn.
Just like that
Thursday, July 5, 2007
He was driving back home. He did not even know why he went back, nothing really awaited him there. His house seemed to sense his loneliness and claw at him.
He wished he had her , but most of all he wished he had told her how wonderful she had looked the night she drove away.***
My first attempt at a song fifty five. The song wonderful tonight- eric clapton
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
“Utterly talented but crazy.”
“Hard to handle”
Poised. Smart. Genuine.
Uusally mis- understood.
Witness to life around,
The gory battles fought alone,
The comfort of soaring high.
As the Nadaswaram tuned in and some more ghee revved up the holy fire,
The Writer missed their chapter!
where the Nadaswaram and the Madalam invoke a new path
where roses, jasmine, sandal, sugar candy can’t wipe the tears of a gifting father
where the tunes of the Laali and the shared moment beneath the Arundhati make a promise worthwhile
to a new bond to the south of the Vindhyaas
Monday, July 2, 2007
Take a walk in the mud. Stay out in the rain so long that you never feel clean and dry again. When you return, you won’t need to stand at the window to see the view.
Too late, I already paid the rent.