Tangy

As a rickshaw and a few cars whizzed by forming a few dust clouds, the man at the counter deftly served Maya a succulent panipuri in the steel bowl she reverently held out. Under the gleaming streetlight, each crisp spherical wheat cover almost crumpled to sogginess with the sloshing sweet and tangy tamarind liquid it briefly held.

“Plop”, he went, dunking a tiny golden orb laced with bits of potato and pea filling into a large metal pot holding the chilled spicy liquid. A puri then quickly found its way into each outstretched bowl by turns. A semicircle of strangers bound for that moment by a spicy kinship, shared intent. No one looked at him, or each other. No one talked. Almost like a prayer, this act of ensuring that the puri reached their mouths almost intact. An act of sublime concentration, finishing each puri well in time before the next serving.

In a flash, the tangy juice, the blend of green- red chillies and the just about dissolving wheat cover worked their magic. Opening up long forgotten nerve endings, setting the brain afire, as the first of tears flowed. In that moment, nothing else mattered. Not what he said – or didn’t. “I don’t particularly care for street food,” he’d said, disdainfully. “Oh, but I do,” she’d said, finally walking away.

(222 words for sub)

Technicolor, Dolby sound

In the chilly theater,Maya suppressed a knowing grin and drew her shawl closer, glancing at the row of college students seated right behind her. Fumbling, fidgeting, holding hands. Giggles and comments at star antics, a derisive hoot as the hero hurtled through a first-floor window to a shower of glass, entirely unhurt. A young college crowd not very different from the one on the screen- battle, overturn the political system, deliver vigilante justice in two hours and some. Fast paced, lovely colors. “Entirely kitsch, Maya admitted as she moved her wrist higher on the armrest, marking territory, edging closer to the wall on her right. A close shot of a red tram filled the screen, the pensive heroine seated by a window after a lovers’ tiff. The tram turned a corner, cut to a slow pan of the Victoria Memorial. Edifice in white marble, soaring fluted columns, white dome, cornices and statues of angels and gargoyles. Edifice in white marble, set in vast rolling lawns to channeled streams and a lake, a monument to British imperial might, Hail Regina! A cloud of pigeons wheeled into the sunshine, fluttering gray against quiet white.

Regal white set picture pretty against jade. Dazzling. Slightly yellow-tinted white, yet so solidly comforting. A seven-year old runs across freshly mown grass. Now I’m an aeroplane, watch me wheel, watch me dive as I zigzag this jade expanse. London bridge is falling down, husha husha, my fair lady. Shankar! Get the car around, NOW! Ayah! A glass of water! Comb my hair! Can’t you see- are you deaf or something?! School’s on! No! The white uniform with the red belt and red ribbons, white socks. Not the blue PT dress, silly! Music on Wednesday, art on Fridays, that’s the art bag, you never keep anything properly, do you? Bag flung, stomping feet. Lush green, dairy milk chocolate, the candy called witches’ hair and space to race on Sundays. In an empty home peopled with servants, sunlight filters past vast rooms. A child’s room, “my dump room”, she derisively calls it, toys books colors, higgledy-piggeldy and all over, wanting for someone to admonish. Voices from the past, can voices be sepia?

“ I’m not going back. Ever”, the heroine haltingly says to herself.
“Nor am I”, Maya admitted, arms crossed as she huddled deeper in her seat.

(394 words , for sub)

Crimson

This crisp Monday paper, the headline in font twelve
tucked by yet another Iraq story and plunging neckline
the words shriek out
a girl jumped, died.


At Grand Pardi, Kemps Corner down by Malabar hill
Where the air smells different,
Palms, brass- glass, couture, the swish of limousines
Did they stop, halt a while
a girl jumped, died


She stood a while on high parapet
beat constable and tea vendor watched aghast
their “go back! Stop now”
babbled in strange tongues’
bounced off her grief cocoon
this girl who jumped, died

did no one ever tell her
its ok, time heals; that’s life, not a cliché
she was well bred too,
conservative daughter of a honorary consul
a 23 year old MBA from UK
this girl who jumped, died


while she lay arms akimbo
seeping red patch on cobblestone gray
they went from slammed door to door
did you know her? Did she visit you?
this girl who jumped, died


“ Not us. We were fine with it”
“ it was all good, really okay”
the boy’s family much later says.
Well-lawyered lines for the papers,
to erase the crimson stain,
close yet another breaking story
this girl who jumped, died

~

At the book launch: The Immortal Dialogue of K. Asif's Mughal-E.-Azam

We are quite done now
with valiant Salims,
breathtaking Anarkalis
pledging troth by a million wall-mirrors
however we do have
In coffee table green, color-corrected
on foreign art paper, heidelberg bound
Columns of sparse words in four languages
For a thousand five
On sale, of course
Tears and truth by the quintal.

~



Say someday
Just by chance, ok?
dissecting a theory of the mind
or a nerve waltz through the frontal lobe
a smile caught your eye a moment longer
you watched entranced
would you please tell me
would you let me know?

tree of life

The wall art that I fondly call “The tree of life” looks upon the world at large from its perch above the burnished dining table. As wall hangings go, this one is rather stark- a single tree outlined in white patchwork. Hand-stitched white cloth placed upon fabric of dark, lifeblood red. The cloth then perfunctorily stretched edge to edge on a firm wooden frame, the taut fabric covered over with film to keep it dust-free. A tree, standing tall and proud, quite sure of its place in the world- the tree of life. There is strength in the clean lines of the trunk and roots, a quiet dignity in lines that a child may have drawn. A crown of intertwined leaves reaches skywards, reaching out, almost breaking free and flying free of the boundaries of the frame. A canopy radiates groundwards, the rustle of delicate leaves extravagantly placed, and you can almost bring to mind the cool shade and the feel of moist ground that you could scuffle underfoot. Some branches crisscross, some stand alone. Yet each complement, an easy part of a whole that seems just right. While this art lacks the detailing, say, of a Persian engraving, in its elegance and assertion- simple, calm, straightforward - there is a clear sense of purpose, of confident growth, growth that is earned. It was a hot summer afternoon, the mercury searing at 47 plus when I was tempted into buying this from a traveling tribal craft fair. It was perhaps some fifteen years ago- yet the dry heat that seared one’s skin, the futile whirring of the pedestal fans, the idle few that ambled looking cursorily at the wares on display, the echoes along that bare whitewashed hall, colorful goods stacked haphazardly on wooden tables – I’m surprised I remember all this. I’m surprised too, at the clarity and strength that a simple tribal woman has been able to showcase - and in a few simple lines capture the sweep of a Picasso.