Tuesday, July 31, 2007

Wisdom from the 55er-Oracle

Too many cooks are better than one in the bush. Forewarned is forespawned. Tis better to have loafed and lost than never to have loafed at all. So think wisely and as well as possible. Depending on how deep it is. The well, that is. Half a loaf, as they say, is enough for dinner.

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

Ray of light


He looks at her from the corner of his eye
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

They lost him--VI

He checked once more-- the final draft—before handing it over. The lady at the counter wore a blank look like the other side of an important piece of paper which exists just so.

“My father….you see, this is my father” he stammered.

The lady nodded and stamped ‘24’!

In the ‘Missing’ column,
a father- numbered!

Time, Perhaps? VII

She’d been cleaning and washing for days. The winter sun would often envelope her back like a warm pashmina as she sat there mending quilts.

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

Pot of gold

lips.jpgHer parents say that she was born talking.

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

Recycled message

After this

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

Song 55s--In dino....

Circa 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]


Happy birthday!

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

Song 55: Suicide Note

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.


When we kiss, do you close your eyes?
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!

Turnabout isn't fair play

She picks a gob of mud and aims carefully
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.

Another life VI

She is in a transparent capsule of bubbled glass which has taken the shape of her head, limbs, hips and the feet jutting out like an odd bunk-head.

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

Song55: Wonderful Tonight

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


“It’s too late for you, now….”
“Utterly talented but crazy.”
“Hard to handle”

Two women.
Poised. Smart. Genuine.
Uusally mis- understood.

Two women.
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!

Come IV

Come here,
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

Come here,
to a new bond to the south of the Vindhyaas

Monday, July 2, 2007

Room with a view

The room has a view. An expensive view.


She says,
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.

He shrugs,
Too late, I already paid the rent.