Blessings~

She bowed with eyes closed, before the pleasant-faced deity, the patron God of the arts, the harbinger of good fortune and slayer of all evil. In her mind, quickly moving mass of chemical formulae straightened itself out of a jumble, sorted and shook itself straight, danced, morphed and then separated in orderly rows. “Get me out of this please please please dear God. I swear I wont have anything to do with medicinal chemistry ever again. Please God, those steroid transformations, where the circles close and open up and groups shuffle around rings on whim. No, I wont immigrate, not even if I get a full fee waiver and a visa for more med chem, so help me, God.”

She stood in front of the pleasant faced deity, strangely calm and wane, “You brought me to this and you will deliver. No, he says he’d rather not, he says he has other things to do. You have some other plans perhaps.” The marigold garlands seemed to take on the luster of the gold-plated idol. Outside, the rain-swept road was bustling with sounds of main street, small town India; honking rickshaws, buses hell-bent intent on finding a way, a song from a distant radio.

“Well, the company says its moving, lock, stock and filing cabinets. What shall we do? There really isn’t any work for me here. And I refuse to sit at home and be that ‘poor girl, she’s thirty- five and as yet, unmarried…’ The big city is scary, its is supposedly nasty, crime infested, and distant. And we don’t know anyone, not really. You think I should take a trial run and see how it goes?” Vighnaharta, one name among the million names the deity was known by, the remover of all obstacles, seemed to send a gentle smile her way.

Past ups and abysmal downs. Rejection letters, promotion highs, the first ever this and that, heartbreaks and tears. Illnesses patiently borne, fractures healed and falls that miraculously were stayed from becoming serious. Stock market ups and downs. Operations, home hunts, house changes, recalcitrant landladies, and landladies who miraculously became friends. Sudden insights and last-minute travel plan changes. Twist and turns, and an uncanny sixth sense that shielded her past people who didn’t seem right; life’s shortcuts that were better avoided.

Carried forth on a palm, protected, guided, no matter what.

Faith.

Why? I want to shake you hard and ask, or persist in my usual strident shrill harridan mode why why when what oh really! But intrinsically, whittled to the core, it’s a why, and with the benefit of the silver that liberally peppers black, I know yes, there is no why, not really. It just is, like a thread that bravely put on a front for so long, patched and spliced a couple of times, but was gradually frayed at the ends; till one day that was it. Enough. So I tiptoe away from these flame points, and sit by and share your silences. Day by day, I say.

Pre-diwali Sunday.
They’re out to shop.
"buy, or you're done!"
Glassware, linen, white goods, dry fruits, dazzlers, danglers
lip gloss, chocolates, eyeliner. Steelware. Luggage.
Indian. Imported. Counterfeit.
Everything. Now. Grab!
Crowds.
Temple quality crowds on an auspicious day?
Jostling pushing loud thrusting grabbing
“keep moving keep moving, quick on thedouble march fast keept'yurrlefft”
I gasp.
Genuflect at the till-altar.
A stranger's sweat on my skin.
Push free to a white sky.

Kaikeyi’s rant

Fourteen years: a slew of curses, a stretched silence
Five thousand hundred and ten, days of acid scorn
Shunned, as night slips into strained day
I, too, am the queen mother.

Wife- mother- widow- witch,
the mirrors jeer, echo
a harsh banshee wail, destiny’s words
I, too, am the queen mother

a quagmire of my own design
abuse and hate my crown of thorns
the acrid flame that purified molten gold
the weathered stone it was beaten fine on
I, too, am the queen mother.

Chants. Reflected off gold spires.
Swirling incense.
The prayer wheel.
Sangham sharanam gacchami.

Shuffling footsteps
A silent march.
The golden mean. The six fold path
Sangham sharanam gacchami.

Bowed ochre, the crack on wood on bone
Thudding boots on paved stone
Shots zip overhead
Sangham sharanam gacchami.




http://www.nytimes.com/2007/09/26/world/asia/26cnd-myanmar.html?hp

Orange sherbet and Jemima Rabbit
And of course Sherbet has an Arabian Nights feel to it, a jewel-bedecked, pale as alabaster Scheherazade swathed in the finest of rose silks, with diamonds in her hair, spinning her tales through endless nights of star-crusted velvet, veering her tale to a dreary end so it just about splutters to a certain death, and THEN with a single brilliant turn of phrase setting it adrift like a kite, to another startling level, a gasp at life, surviving another sunset. Arabian Nights, and you; and I try keep my mind on the price of oil, straight roads and chrome and glass buildings of the bustling modern Arabian city you live in, force veer it away Scheherazade-like, from thinking of how straight a nose you have, the feel of your skin, and how your curiously-slit eyes shine like diamonds in the dark. But I’m no Scheherazade else this story would have had a different ending or none, and you wouldn’t perchance have tripped, hunting for a Scheherazade to call your own, roving past high-rise towns, past marketplaces, minarets, chat rooms, and skyscrapers. I was good, I was sweet. Nice, goody-two shoes nice; why, I can make a little go a very long way: three subs, one poem one haiku, scrawled black on white. I’ve just about begun.

History throws a golden sheen on events, a pale filtering sunshine that softens the harsh edges, blurs them to an indistinctive-ness, allows the luxury of selection, of dark and light, that real time do not. So that randomly or quite by choice: events, sequences, people, can be highlighted or played down. In a sense an ultimate play with words, with presentation, use one or another, add a mite here or an easing off there, or word a statement from quite another perspective, and meanings can change or be hinted at, distanced, quite at will. This then, is the force, the power of it all, majestic in its sweep, and with a turn of phrase or a casual word, interpretations can be created or reputations shaken.

The color red spread like a series of dots across the city, red dots joined by a thin thread, red dots pierced with manic intensity on white immaculate blotting paper where the color had diffused around pretty pin-points. Nine flare-ups and the sizzle of frying flesh preceded the dots, or maybe nineteen could have, but didn’t quite, the people refused in their wisdom to believe what the officials said, recognizing a cover-up for what it was. What could have been, what might have been and why on effing earth was it not, the people were so nice, no heads rolled, and every slip filed away under a big holdall labeled karma. This is one law that had always worked, it always had and would this once too. There was a cruel steel edge to it, it cut harsh sometimes but they went on, drinking in this hurt as well zombie like.

Seasons

Rina fumbled with her writing pad in her corner seat next to the satin-festooned ramp, trying to look invisible and confident by turns.

Dim chandelier lights, orchids, wall length mirrors, the chatterati in swishing silks and suits. Perfect for the Lkme fashion curtain raiser. But she’d rather be covering commodities; her usual beat, watching zinc burn up the bourses.

“ Oh did you really tell him that?” said an amused voice from the seat behind her. “Fuchsia is soo garish this year, specially ruffles. You told Arjun?”

“ Yes, pink is quite the new black. I told him to reconsider. After all, the Dalal name would forever be linked with such people. Whoever heard of such a thing.” a clipped accent replied.

“ Nouveau rich. Such poor taste. Imagine giving your interest the family jewellery to flaunt. Everyone has an interest or two, all right, but to give away heirlooms… how silly… “

“I told Arjun to watch out. Not quite our level. Or sensible.”

“So that Petro thing is off? That girl’s way too lean for this halter top.“

“He’ll do as I say. Old money knows the smell of cash. That’s what he says.”

“Really? I can’t believe you just said that. Terrible, isn’t it? ”

“ Why? What’s wrong with that? Just a few signatures on paper. Hemant’s showing this afternoon.”

“ Maybe I’ll go to the Galleria one. All the headlines, the news conferences, soundbytes?”

“ So what! It’s only a cross- border document. Even if the PM witnessed it.”

“ Rather unusual, I know. Seemed like such a smart deal. But under the circumstances, maybe.

Next morning the newspaper featured a headline: “Dalal to end $10 bill Petrochemical deal.”

Riyaaz*
Sunanda Ali Khan grimaced as her first born valiantly attacked the scales, notes of the sargam.
Jal, or Jallaluddin, second grader at River High as also thetwenty-fifth direct descendent of a navratna at Emperor Akbar's 16thcentury court, was attempting to learn classical music.
Outside, the environs of 17 Cedar Drive, Hill Slope, NJ wereblissfully quiet. As quiet as they can be on a weekday winterafternoon with just the sound of tyres swishing on the distanthighway.
Sunanda shut her eyes and tried to count to hundred with each mis-sungwarble. She tried to focus on the sweet base notes of the harmoniumand block the protests of her labrador, Raja, whom she'd banishedoutside.
A sound like a cat's warning screech arose from her son's vocalchords. Who could ever believe his illustrious lineage, the rewardsand the acclaim bestowed on his ancestor, honored with the privilegeof inaugurating the spring concert at the palace all those centuriesago?
"He'll get better with practice". She calmed herself.
"He'd better get better with practice". She mock- scolded herself.
It wasn't his fault really, it was the distance and this country.
Why, next year, they'd be returning to Allahabad, where the extendedAli-Khan family lived in a rambling mansion. Where even a newborncried in the right pitch and tone. It was in the blood, the lineage,the old women of the family sagely said.
Where Jal better sing if he were to fit in.
Hence these afternoon sessions, these wrestling bouts with pitch andtone, with notes sounding like colliding planets or demonic bat screeches.
~
Mr Smith groaned. Trust the neighbor's cat to keep him from some welldeserved rest on a day when he'd called in sick. What a cacophony! Heshould never have moved into this neighborhood. He turned and tried to sleep.
But no! There was no warning hiss between cries. He knew cats. He knew cats and screechy territory battles over back alleys and fire escapes.But this sounded different. He listened for a while, Sounded quitehuman, now that you thought about it. Almost like a cry for help. Acascading plea for help.
The main door was open, a labrador was growling and the cries seemedmore insistent when he hurried over to check.
Let the authorities handle this, he decided, and dialed 911.
(*riyaaz- practice)

Cross and naughts

Sarita Lall folded the tabloid so that only the color picture of the ancestral Tambaram abode was visible. The village home of the illustrious Tambaram family. Synonymous with telecom, infrastructure investments and frontline politics.

Someone with a good eye for architectural detail had taken the photo from the entrance, doing justice to the vast central courtyard with carved teak pillars lining the sides. The stone floor of the open courtyard was polished; the doors of the rooms that led off the balcony were somberly painted. Old money and culture. Traditional South Indian culture: vast estates, women in rustling silks, jasmine strands and diamond ear-rings.

“ Not good enough for the servant’s quarters”, Sarita mocked the tiny paying guest accommodation that she shared with two other girls; a room and a tiny balcony that almost touched the tenth floor balcony of the flat opposite. Green paint, large strips of plaster peeling off, posters of Bollywood stars on the walls. Standard issue metal furniture, cheap square-patterned bedsheets bartered off a hawker. A far cry from the Tambaram’s, for sure.

Positioning. Creating an image, a past that didn’t quite exist. For their eldest son, they’d seek a good girl with a public school education at the very least. A convent education or similar. A good background. Maybe a diplomat’s daughter. Or an expatriate doctor’s. Someone who had the polish, the breeding, St. James and Champs Elysees. Someone who could fit into the family, light the lamp at religious ceremonies and still hold her own with tinkling glass and gleaming lights.

Positioning. Something that her army background with its frequent postings had taught her. Show, don’t tell. Show just what you need to, traces and wisps and leave them wondering about the rest.

She’d find a way.

Chinar

Annapurna Shekhawat ran her fingers through her short gray hair, put her gold-framed specs away and stacked the business and general newspapers meticulously in two heaps. So Mr. Patel had been right about Kashyap, her nephew and heir apparent to the vast Shekhawat fortunes built on oil, textiles and steel.

Kashyap. Kash. That’s what his friends called him, a rather fast set of youngsters, all born to the manor, born with silver spoon privileges. Falling profit at the conglomerates that their forefathers had painstakingly built, and ever- increasing party-time, fashion shows, art events. Lamborghinis and pedigreed horses had enthralled Kashyap even as their oldest factory, the one her father-in-law had first built in Calcutta in 1955, was shut down, the real estate squirreled away and sold.

Mr. Patel, ever the loyal retainer, had coughed politely as was typical when he wanted to say something unpleasant. But he had been right. Something had to be done, and quickly.

Annapurna sighed. It was not the boy’s fault. No. It never was the boy’s fault. A pampered upbringing, the very best public school, hobnobbing with the sons of erstwhile rulers, offspring of politicians, old-money business scions. Vacations in Paris, in Lucerne. The best of this and that. Pampered, like fine china.

After all, he was the heir-apparent, she had no children, it was assumed the legacy would pass to Kash. Spoilt, indulged. None of that rough and tumble her husband had been put through, worked to the bone even as he was studying. No far-flung factory assignment, no punishing training in the Indian system of numbers after school hours, every moment accounted for. No ambition. And the tragedy had made it worse.

Kash had lost his parents in an air crash that had no survivors. He was suddenly the poor boy in tragic circumstances. It was impossible to tell him anything after that, he could do no wrong, not to the cloying relatives and hangers-on. Even his arranged marriage to a good girl from a middle class family hadn’t worked as she’d expected, for the girl had changed overnight; now the constant partying and socializing kept the young couple busy.

It was too bad she had no children. “ Perhaps if there were sibling rivalry. Perhaps if he had had more time..”. Annapurna looked into the distance past the row of chinar trees that lined the curving drive to the portico of the mansion. But now something would have to be done.

The bearer knocked politely before clearing away the silver tea service. The lawyers would be here soon. There’d be a ruckus when her will would be read, glaring headlines and outcry, an outsider walking away with the family fortune!

She must begin the process of creating a meticulous paper trail to back her decision.

These days
I’m back to writing about hills, rain and greens.
These days
I walk tall.
I learn a cuss word a day.
No-nonsense. Don’t mess. Please.
No fripperies, and thank you very much.
These days
I get a surprisingly lot done. I’m not jumpy anymore.
I don’t stop to analyse,analyse. Not much.
Or fret.
What have I said now to offend.
Why do you suddenly call me “ austere”, o’my, that’s quite a tumble.
Or wonder about ghosts and sundry gremlins in mailboxes.
I don’t need to be making a living from questions people don’t ask
To fathom.
But no, that’s not rocket science.
You’ve to be reminded about manners?
Don’t you know when someone’s ill you ask?
Or were you always like this.
I was blinkered, I couldn’t see.
My bad.

“Five million euros at LIBOR,” Nikki murmured softly, watching in the mirror the outline of crisp salt and pepper hair and the dim reflections of the party in room behind her; a golden haze of soft laughter, muted undertones and the tinkle of cut glass. “ You think that’s good?” he asked in an amused deep baritone. Gere for sure, Nikki thought, as she touched the lace ruffle at her neck, loosening a satin bow. Her long fingers briefly flitted at her nape before she looked up and replied, “for Luxemburg?” Green eyes narrowed for a brief moment as they noticed the crispness of an unruly lock of gray that fell over his forehead. Gray- crisp white- worsted black. The dawn mist over a quiet St Peters as church bells peal in the distance. Green eyes quickly darted to the white-red- white neon lights of the billboards lining the seaboard, the sparkling lights by the bay, the lapping waters beyond and the roaring echo of the waves that seemed to draw her in.

A persian carpet, the finest weave in white silk, shot with gold thread here and there, sparkling white gems and the gentlest white pearls adding to the luster, designs built on the waft of a breeze and a whisper-sigh, patterns that shimmer and change with the light. You see what you want to, a mosaic now, an intricate floral pattern next, the sky and stars and universe then, for it has taken master craftsmen their lives’ blood to fashion this offering, but a dream, nazrana.

A tattered tarpaulin, paint, oil smudges, age, grime, old folds apparent, the cloth worn in parts where a frayed backing is visible, used till one day it withers to threads, its eventual destiny rags and then some landfill. Reality.

Once upon a time, a prince had been unable to distinguish between an ingeniously crafted pond and a rich carpet, so fine was the craftsmanship. A queen had laughed sarcastically her voice cutting past centuries, “ The son of a blind man is but blind!” Then, much blood had stained the rivers; so many widows had shattered the silence of the dead with their screams and curses.

One wonders what would happen now.
For in this game of one-upmanship, jabs and slights, deceit-mirages and reality, not much has changed.

Raindrops shimmer on the windscreen, their shadows dull gray on the dashboard. Lightening crackles and splits the night, all dancing silver and purple. Vast acres flash with an other-worldly light. Rain pelts like sharp needles on the asbestos road, drenching trees and the bougainvillea on the divider. Absolute silence except for the crack of thunder and drumming rain, a sharp edge to the air, ozone, the gift of life. She reaches out, past the confines of the seat belt, past the glass and bounds of the horizon it defines, and connects if only for a microsecond with that vibrant, dancing light connecting sky and earth; the charge coursing through her veins, illuminating every nerve, saturating every pore of tissue, like a million scintillating rays.
She sits up straight.

She rolled on a draft that came in seawards, using the extra heft to fly higher with just a wing turn, and drifted lazily above the wooly monsoon clouds that blanketed the city. The gleaming towers of BKC lay to the left, lights ablaze, all edges, metal and glass. The radio had said winds of 30 to 40 miles per hour, but this was a strong gust really, as the wind whistled past nodding palm leaves fringing the shore a tin roof or two flew off, but up here it all was all serene and calm. Perhaps in a while she’d swoop and check on lunch in the glittering waters off the sea-link, but not just yet.

I think the most important force that drives humans is self-interest. No, not saying this is the only factor, but this is the top one, it is the way humans have evolved, part of the genetic make up, and end of the day, Darwin compels. And that altruism, philanthrophy and others of its ilk are indulged in because they are associated in some manner with a positive stroke. Also, the mind or brain – will not get into semantics- has a limited capacity to absorb information and process it. So we tend to classify, focus, sort and drop information that is not totally key to staying alive. To the extent that information that is dissonant with what we believe (or we like to think we believe, fine line there) we tend to drop or overlook. If we didn’t, we couldn’t function. There are hardware analogies.

There was a study sometime back that measured the emotional responses to situations where 2-3 people were involved, say in an accident; as versus a mass tragedy. The findings consistently showed that singular accidents tend to earn more empathy/ sympathy cookie points so to speak, as versus incidents where masses were involved, with the cut off at about five people. The brain just cannot grasp the enormity of a tsunami or a Darfur. On the other hand, a patient with cancer or a single child kidnapped, anyone can identify with. Maybe mirroring also plays a role here, in your mind you put yourself in that situation. I think there are people with higher empathy thresholds. As also trained professionals- doctors, social workers- with higher thresholds. But at best this can be only baseline incremental. No, a Mother Teresa or Gandhiji don’t fit into this grid,and I don’t know why.


Yes, Shiv, desensitization is one reason. If we weren’t, we couldn’t function, and it is happening too often to register, let alone prompt a shock reaction.
I am not so sure about seeking for a reason to live when we know we eventually have to go (I’m being polite ha). If you remember that tale about Yudhishthir and the yaksha, the secret which everyone knows and no one admits to is his own mortality, this is the greatest con job of all.

Mystic- yes, it is enormous and it is a tragedy but it is way too huge to draw a visceral response. A single mother with a starving child, yes; but a town full of mothers? That’s way too many. If copper or oil or similar is involved, aid will reach, that’s understandable without going into a value judgement, there is something in it for the countries lending a helping hand. Sometimes I wonder if there were no horror stories, no breaking news what would journalists write?

Disclaimer: half baked thinking, provincial and not linear at all, read at own risk.

Darfur. Afghanistan. Chad. Sudan.
So many places.
Too many places.
Bleak. Soul-killing. But now we don’t recoil.
People are tired. The horrified quota’s done.
People are tired Of being weary.
25 mill currently internally displaced. 1 bill more by 2050.
Persecution/ conflict/ run for your life
Add: Climate change/ salination/ rising sea levels/ desertification
Displaced. What a word. Rootless.
Wails, sighs, mind numbing gray.
“Enough already!” they say.
So these tired stories,
Drop off the front pages, tucked in some place.
Not too near that ad for a sale
Or that Wal-Mart story, Wall Street bonuses, all’s well.
People are tired.
So they limit.
The boat people, remember, hungry, wet and abandoned, on the high seas?
They’re going to build a wall, now, to keep people out, land that technically, historically speaking, all said and done, is theirs.
So many more.
Blessed are the meek, the abandoned, the despairing, take faith, for the heavens shall visit upon them.
Too much misery. Too much suffering. Much too much pain.
If there were something like a sympathy/empathy threshold. It has long gone.
Sigma pain is much too much.
An interesting change to observe.

To you I wrote all my songs of life and of love
To you I sent my sequestered why’s
To you I sang of this and of that
Old scars peeled off, loves never had
Childhood prattle and wear-a-mask tales
Twinkledust, makebelieve


In your eyes I saw the immense skies
Rainbows and dreams and the kiss of wet sand
Sunswept coral and wind scorched lands
Church steeples that sprung out of nowhere
My happy head on the line, the stargazer’s nays
furious gales and the gasp of a midnight dream
Twinkledust, makebelieve


My envy at shimmering dewdrops, the bustle of rain
The glimmer in a peepal, silver sighs, why it shakes
a butterfly trembled in a barbed wire web
tiny swirls, duststorms, a starlit desert sky
an eyelash takes wing, before its wished on
Twinkledust, makebelieve


(Shiv- changed it.)

You say: words have meanings.
I nod. Sagely, I hope. Whatever.
You say again: words have meanings.
Sit into slots in the brain.
Words tags. Associations. Random memories stick like glue.
You say all this.
Condensing tomes. theories. Life.
Bite sized pieces. Simplified.
I nod again.
watch what you tell yourself, you say.
Desolate. Despair. Hurt.
Not the same continuum.
So don’t con. Not yourself. No one.
I bristle.
Words have meanings. Words exult. Words laugh. Words sing, speak, weep. Words sweep. the sky, stars, storms and rainbows. Words arranged in lines to look pretty. words arranged with scientific precision.Words like an exalted form of scrabble. Action- reaction- deviation from mean- next line- action- reaction. A superior form of scrabble.
I bristle.

Tell me
And I promise not to be a shrew.
Atleast I’ll try.
Which is good, don’t you think
histrionics ironed out, honeyed smile,
which you’d spot;
anyways these days I mind
my P’s and q’s
edgy over “rude arrogant”.
we could talk,
over latte and masala chai
(personally I think char sau rupya is much too much)
but since we cant, or we wont
just tell me
bet you wont, loyalty, hurt and a funny life.
Don’t you know by now
That people are to be taken
Salt and pepper sprinkled
A bit of garnish
Or like a photo, cropped.
A tape, edited
Free of jump cuts, raised voices, slurs and blurs?
for a voice that jars
best is toned out, stone deaf
Or overlay a sing-song, it always works.
The world’s a stage, play on, Sam.
So tell me
And I’ll listen
I promise not to be a shrew
Atleast, I’ll try

(caution: language)

Sweetheart

“You didn’t pick up the phone?”
“ I was busy. Training. A new language. Programming. Anyway…”, she shrugged, pulling at her T shirt and looking away.
“You didn’t call back later?”
“ I was out. With...with Lopa. You know Lopa?”
“So you couldn’t call me because you were out with some girl. Wow! No. Which Lopa is this now? What group is she in?” he asked, making a note to check with the contacts he’d made at her office on Orkut.
“ Banking vertical. She’s going to US this week. On site. So…”
‘”You’re finance vertical, right? Why is she suddenly your best friend, my sweet arrogant liar?”
“Don’t talk to me like that.”
“I will talk the way I want, you arrogant bitch! Why the hell was your cell busy all the time?” he shouted, pinching her hard.
“The signal…”
‘”Shut up! You’re fibbing again!” and with a change of tone, “ Love, you know I hate to make you cry. You know I can’t breathe without you. Please?”
Pushing a glass of water across the table, “Don’t cry, baby! Please? You know I can’t, just can’t bear to see you weep, oh God please?”
“ What did I do?” she asked, trembling.
‘”Questions! Questions! I don’t like questions. You know that. And you still push me…You dumb floozy, don’t do this, okay, or you’ll be sorry…!”
“But what did I say?”
“You bitch! I’m not good enough for you anymore, right? Got yourself a new lover? You won’t come away with me. You won’t take my calls. All this new-fangled tech stuff. Mad arrogant bitch! But I won’t let you go. No, not now! I divorced my wife. Messed up my service record. Blew up a fortune. Let you go? No, not now, no way.”

(296 words for sub.)
Kaushambi Layek, RIP

Temple town
They stand, still brown framed against flaming sunset, row after row of temple domes.
In the middle of nowhere. Nestled under green hills.
Built in the 17th century, or so the newspaper article says, in an inside story tucked between gossip and an ad for government vacancies.
Built and forgotten, this march of temple domes, brown silhouetted on orange-red.
108 temples circled within 350 metres.
The leaves on the peepal trees that line the roads flutter like prayer flags.A lone bird flies overhead.
108 temples circled within 350 metres.
Built and forgotten, except for the simple people who live there.
They take their pleas and requests to the Gods. They light ghee diyas and offer flowers on special days. They anoint the deities with vermilion and chant fractured prayers.
They tell their children the old tales of the boons, they fast on auspicious days, they invoke the Gods when calamities strike.
Built in the 17th century. In the tradition of a lineage of proud kings, traced to 185 BC. Kings who raced to build temples. Temples that would outshine their predecessor’s.
Maybe a justification, king so-and-so was here, he loved, he lived, he died.
Temples in the middle of nowhere. 108 temples under the green hills.
108 temple spires that drink in the quiet moonlight.
A town of temples. Terracotta and stone dreams for the heavens.
Built 17th century. It must have been grand then.
Now self-professed collectors walk in and leave with a piece of terracotta history, a living room centerpiece.

Karankey
Pruthvi- vayu-tej odhi
Chali jaaun tyare
Paandadu pan nahi haley
Koi akash ghoshna nahi
Ambar shithil
Samay nirantar, moongo, sakshi.
shant saumya
Sumsaam
Koi aakrosh nahi.
Koi vednaa nahi.
Na aagal ulaal na pachal haraal
Pachi jid kevi?
Maangvani, hatagrah ni maney tev nathi.
Munga modhey hasta rehvani tev chey.
Etleyj
Juvo, maru ek kaam karsho?
Vyakti- vishay- naam sarvaney
Smaran maathi bhoosi nakhjo
Halveythi.
Potanu dhyan rakhsho
Ema maaro jeev kyank khuney bandhayo hashey.

“Enabling.”
“How?”
“Like annealing. Eutectic point. Sublimation.
A jump past stages. In that inner- independent-interdependent swirl.
No? ”
Better this, than mention that blue shimmer over Hagia Sophia.
In quick step with those penguins.
An aurora streaking the skies.
Finally free.

jhilmil ojhal, sannatey ke rang
mrudu hansi komal, sannatey ke rang
saans liptey , sannatey ke rang
indradhanush, sannatey ke rang
neelkanth dharan, sannatey ke rang
archan arpan, sannatey ke rang

“Take the next exit. I need to go to washroom," she said. "Sure, but you know we're already late for the meeting." His usual condescending tone. Then a bored silence as the BMW cut past ribbons of asphalt. Five more words than the starched yes’s and no’s they’d shared in all of the last week.

Arpita bit her lip and watched Nikhil from the corner of her eye. Clenched jaw. So he was irritated. Good. After thirty years, she should know. The great Mr Nikhil Mehra, old money industrialist, and his utter predictability. Today his tie was a trifle too loud, not quite old school, getting sloppy at the edges, wasn’t he. But she knew him all right. Every black mood. “A business meeting in Singapore” meant a cosy with yet another short skirted filly. Like that scheming bitch. From “ yes sir, the project papers.” To a dulcet voiced “oh dahling” How effortlessly she’d clawed into him, fawning over every word.

“ You stay clean till this is over and done with”, she’d turned at him, furious at the latest weekend escapade that threatened to spill over to the party pages. “You arrogant smart ass! Middle class slob! Shut up!” he’d roared, and then the fur flew. Followed by a week of silence.

She hid a smile, touching the stones at her ears. It hadn’t been easy for her, all these years of keeping up appearances. A cosy twosome, but everyone knew. Saturday soirees. Dinner at the Chambers. Galas. Air kisses. Staying stoic past the gossip, the knowing glances. One more society hag who couldn’t keep her man. How she hated it.

But it wouldn’t be for too long now.
Once Chandni was settled… Now that Chandni was back from finishing school in Lausanne. Now that Chandni was almost slated to marry into the Malhotras, new money, construction money. More money than a few generations of the Mehras put together. A little raw at the edges perhaps, well whoever heard of filmstars dancing at engagements! But she’d put up with floozies and arm candy till the wedding, not too long to go now.

Once Chandni was settled. The wire transfers that she’d long begun into a going away account. Security, nest egg, how entirely middle class, she looked out of the window and hid a smile.

No one needed to know about Chandni’s parentage then.
(396 words for sub)

For N and Soleil the books, three languages and two generations worth, everything packed, labeled and shipped east coast; even the 10th class Hindi text with the hard words underlined, the binding now loose, the poems fragile, ready to skip with the breeze.

For the kid S the stones, particularly the sated green circled tight by the perfect white glittering lazily, and a wish for a life where she gets to wear these. And burgundy lip gloss.

For H, all my music, the thick 45 rpm gramophone records that don’t play any more, velvet gruff bade ghulam khan saab omkarnathji coaxed into thick plastic, the original beatles covers direct from Liverpool or so I thought, Olivia Newton J perfectly airbrushed yes, it IS all water under the bridge; the tapes that work and don’t., opaque smudged tape covers, all the shiny wannabe cd’s I haven’t been able to find the same connect with.

For B, all the brocade she cares for, from the mothers’ collections, don’t know anyone who thoroughly exults in fabric the way she does; any of the glassware. Fluted champagne, delicate wine glasses. Even to drink Fanta out of and throw your head back, laugh.

All other assets to be cleaned out and given off, the little sisters and the missionaries for charity.

Reformat the hard disks. Not a trace to remain.

THE WIND ON MY PALM

be happy?
the person you once were?
I will see you
in the stars pinned on velvet
the wind playing cloud- tag
soft sunshine on green
a snatch of a song
a stranger’s smile
the perfection of a shell
a steady wick in the temple
and in the words you didn't say
Go! Amend. Renew.
It never was about tallying accounts
And one out of two is not bad.

BROWNS
harbour road?
ugly, I say. quicker, its true.
sewri. reay road .cotton green.
past apathy in pretty names
shiny cars run home
in the pale lamp light.

dark warehouses huddle
all grime, brown, yesterday
shanties a-tumble
lined in padlocked blue
slats double-storey, shiny vessels in a row
a snatch of a song, a charpoy laid out,
a gossip circle, kids at play, a crowd.

suddenly
rubble, broken frames
debris, a life in steel trunks, a crane
a lady in polyester garish red, come-hither
a child cooks by a feeble fire
I try hard to hang on to
Lavender on the horizon, a hill outlined
past the stained glass, hush, teak and red marble
the ac hum, the deep piled gray.
I fail.

A wrong mail,
a cyberspace foul-up. Happens.
A mail meant for another austere, his austere,
A delicate missive on scented winds
mis-mailed with an extra initial
Sits proprietarily in my mail box.


I read, first slowly, line-by-line
a half-smile, in-the-gut envy
words you’ll never say.
“I smile when you do, breathe when you will it
Miles apart, but our hearts race as one
awake to your sunshine touch, atremble
giddily joyous, tearily grateful
each moment a dream, a dance, a prayer…”
A delicate missive on scented winds


“A wrong mail…”
“to whomsoever it may concern”, I write.
You love her, child
like an emerald rainbow, like a mother, like gravity,
the exploding universe, gasping breath
a sobbing smile, existence?
I want to ask.
“just be very happy, all the very best” I say instead.
This stranger latched on to words unsaid.
“keep the faith” he shot back,
“ I don’t know, but just keep the faith.”

COLLECTIONS
People collect all sorts of things.
Key chains, stamps, post cards, matchboxes.
I collect silence.
Fractured. Sullen. Held in. patient. Puzzled.
Questioning. Angry. Hurt. Frozen.
All kinds, a museum display under glass, you know?
Documented, tagged and slotted in.
Tucked away in mind recesses
dead ends, landmines to commemorate.
This, the silence of childhood, empty spaces, standing away. alone. Much too early.
This, the quiet of growing up, words swallowed, tears in check, fists clenched.
Look! the silence of adulthood. wreckage.events. non events.
You knew all my silences. I willingly showed them off.
One by one. Trustingly.
To this collection
I add one more. This one’s rare.
Cosseted in the finest, sun-kist muslin.
Not to be displayed. Not like plumage.
Fractured shards in bronze, a zillion reflecting colors.
This calm silence of surrender.
I clutch the shards tight, laugh,
the pieces cut deep, mark me for life
I drink a sunshine toast,
Speechless, grateful at the sweet depths
this silence of surrender.

Beyond this, what can I do?
When all that had to be said was said
And all that was to be done, was.
There were no barters and no bargains.
(I’m hopeless at that kind of thing)
lines, definitions, nuances, hope
one by one were stretched
an elastic band pulled too taut,
to collapse.
The point would have been reached, for sure
if not this way then by some other route.
Another lifetime that halted a bit, passed us by.
Isn’t it funny?
Haven’t we been here before?
this wistful regard, this knowing
we will fold and store away,
in large tin boxes, labeled “ my life”, “ your life”
with memories for mothballs,
nods smiles and half glances for tissue-lavender.
revisit, and again wonder at coincidences,
perhaps some other lifetime.
So be it.

Now we’re done with talking.
Tears throttle.
Words. For long held-back. Erased.
Take! This touch.
But talk to me. Say something!
Listen! Speak?
(Maybe tomorrow he will)
Words. For long held-back. Erased.
Burst out in an icy fury.
Nasty. Clawing.
an orange-red rage
shakes the skies
red-splattered.
its echo
splits galaxies.
~

“ Morning-o Manhattan”
“ So what’s tweakin you?”
“ Later, what will you do later?’ you ask, furious-impatient.
Sixteen years, Jung and a coffee–moderated politeness.
“Sit in a temple and write the lord’s name in a book”
Silence. But you were always a darling.
~

They say she won’t meet anyone.
No media. No awards. No photo. No nothing.
Empty. Beyond.
I quite understand.
From spotlight to recluse
With nothing left to say
Is not too far a journey.
I envy that.
My house will have high walls and blue kota.
Somewhat like her lit corner.

for jw~

Write me a love poem, you said.
Words are brittle.
They get pinned
to reference points in whirling mind mists
or like a missing slash on a t, rankle long after.
Meanings can morph.
take on no-name pastel hues and shades.
Flutter free like a psychedelic butterfly,
Or bear the brunt of dry afternoon sun, shrivel, fold into themselves.

Write me a love poem, you said.
words define, tie in, set a boundary; like a barbed wire fence.
Is infinity really eight letters long?
a milky swirl of pinpoint stars and galaxies
all encompassing, alive?
Doesn’t precious have a number value you’d put to it ? Does it?
What about faith? The Indian one, asthaa?
Forget it. I shan’t even try define.
It is what it is.

But write me a love poem, you said.
Words of endearment, yearning, longing, waiting
much quoted, bandied about, like scrabble pieces
random
Or stale smoke in a closed room, tawdry.
Meanings disappear in tiny crevices between letters.
Helpless. Proud. I look away.
It is. What it is.

You can get three for ten bucks-
plastic mugs with little hearts and “I luv you”.
by the steps, at andheri station
why would one need three? I dunno.

painted on rickshaw screens, truck tailboards
those three words again.
he’s telling the whole wide world;
rather profligate, no? but how cute. Well, in a way.

Paper rose cards, hallmark, archies.
Keychains. Wrapping paper. Movie hoardings.
This season’s. Last season’s. New!
Whittled on green in the ladies compartment. In a lift.
A heart, an arrow and two initials, entwined.
Last week’s countdown top ten hit. How very nice.

As the earth waits patiently,
dawn’s first fingers brush awake the sky.
Unbidden,
a scarecrow, arms extended, guards a parched field.
A cuckoo sings to the last moon.
This planet whizzes intent on its axis,
a path predetermined.

a small town called barsana,
trees etched in emerald- gold
gold-dust lines the winding lanes
every morning,
the sun sprinkles fistfuls
fine spun gold.

wise winds blow. so they should.
a thundering gale from an old forgotten epic
dry scorching currents too, persistent
a winter waft cuts in from Siberia
Time, ruins;
the endless march of seasons.

the ether echoes proud with his name, unsaid.
millennia-old, yes.
you, perhaps, could reach out and touch it.
in this play of mirrors, mirrors within mirrors
that one happenstance,
a meher
every particle dizzily resonates with.
~

someday sometime
if ever we’re skin to skin, you and I
cleave to me
the grit of bitter desert sands
the anguish in the echo of a footstep
angry interstellar storms
the acrid curse of that lava river
lashing arctic high winds
be at peace,
if only for
that splinter of time.

The problem, you see, is with the name.
star-crossed
it heeds a far away call
a radiant flash through cities, forests, deserts
an iridescent molecule in a metastate reaction
a tinkling laugh that weaves past
hotels, railway stations, monuments, seafronts.
revelling in scorching heat
the gentle prattle of first rain
warmth of a roadside bonfire.
rich in
this trance of our own making,
swirl on.

Aaj rang hain hey maa rang hain reee
Mere mehboob ke ghar rang hai ree

colors
~
delicate strands of madhumalti, pinkredwhite,
a jumbled riot, merrily adrift
never have the crotons been as crisply red before
sunlight glints off a sprinkler splash on green
the corner badaam , psychedelic, standstill.



( there was a poem in class 10, in hindi 2, remember?)
kabhi kabhi rangon mein rang bhar aatein hain,
badalta kuch bhi nahin,
wahi meiz, wahi guldasta, wahi farsh,
magar sab kuch badal jata hai.

Finally free of its last moorings,
the soul sings the sweet hiss of surf.
as flesh shredded against crags,
wisps into traces of C, H, N.
then dances in dervish fever on gleaming far waves
cloud swoops over a city like a benediction
races up a lit Eiffel, yodels with gospel singers in the Queens
bungee jumps a cupola or two
shimmies down an arctic iceberg
to jump to a far desert, a swirling dancing sandstorm
finally free.

In the evening, someone wailed, then Ayah and the other servants were all quiet and then they all went away somewhere. That was ok, I had Anna my golden-haired doll, all my other toys, the train, the blue tea set and I’d pile them all up in the middle of the dump room; that’s my play room but Mama called it dump room when she was upset with me.

Now she isn’t upset for she isn’t around so much anymore. Ayah said she is ill, in the hospital, and that she will go to God. Ayah is so silly, she says a lot of things. She said that Anna dances at midnight, claps and sings songs. Ayah is dark like tea, and she covers her face with a veil except when she is sitting with Raju, the driver. Yesterday afternoon both of them left me all alone in the house and went away, and she gave me five orange sweets and made me promise not to tell anyone. I think she likes him.

Papa returned from office early and his face was tight, like when you hurt, but you can’t show it. He kept blowing his nose but he didn’t have a cold. I gave him my hanky like miss had said, and he went and washed his face.

He kept looking out of the window and jumped when the phone suddenly rang. Then he grabbed me by the hand so hard it hurt, and quickly ran out of the house even though I had paint on my old dress and my hair was like Anna’s. “Oh my child, what will happen to you...”, he kept mumbling. Then we reached the big hospital I promised God I’d be good, but I was worried who’d pack my tiffin now.
(300 words for sub, a life event from a 5 year-old's pov)

Superstar

Tyres squealed and grit flew as Anjaan Kumar swerved his pajero to miss the sleeping labourers. He’d almost mowed down the migrant road diggers, sprawled like you’d think their fathers owned the pavement.

Awful evening. Damn the launch party. Damn the squeezie who’d played hard to get, only to vanish when it was time to go home. Her name was Pallavi, he’d wheedled out her number and stored it on his cell. He tried to recall the way she swayed and the lilt of her laughter. But after a few shots of molten gold they all seemed the same.

He winced as he realized he’d have to wake up in two hours for an early shoot. Nursing a solid hangover he’d still have to smile, switch on that boyish charm and parrot his lines. After all, he was THE Anjaan Kumar, heartthrob and billboard king.

He braked and reversed when he saw that the Carter Road approach to his sea-facing duplex was a concrete mess. He’d have to duck into a no entry lane for just a bit, but at three in the morning it shouldn’t matter. What was that? A lone cop on a bike signaling him to stop? Didn’t he know who he was? How dare he! But he would soon put the bumbling goon right. Why, he’d call up the commissioner and have this idiot packed off to some obscure hamlet!
~
(235)

Beat constable Pandu Athale was tired.

This new commissioner had strange notions, patrol the lanes and bylanes of Bandra as if this was some village, not the place where big people lived. Important people with empty minds. Brawls, car rage, windscreens smashed by ditched mistresses, screaming matches, gangs of rich brats vandalizing walls. An occasional suicide or petty theft.

He’d had enough of all this. One more hour and he could go home.

Not that things were any better at home. Pallavi, his daughter was acting up, or so he’d noticed for some time. She’d answer back, had chopped off her hair in defiance, and stayed overnight at her friend’s house all the time - to study - she said, but he knew better. It was all because of this Mumbai-culture. He just wished he could pack her off to his village in Ratnagiri, and get her married off to some good boy who’d keep her in check.

He stiffened as he noticed a pajero lurching from side to side, coming from the wrong direction. Yet one more boorish idiot who thought he owned the law. Drunk, no doubt, with tinted glasses rolled up as if his father wrote the rules. Why, he’d set him right! He’d take away his cell, license and then see what connections the man could drum up. He smiled as he signaled for the car to stop.

(235)



( for sub, cue: two points of view)

Dead end

Rafeeq counted to ten with a racing heart as he waited for the curfew siren to end. The army would soon march past shuttered homes, the empty streets echoing to their footsteps. Barricaded trucks would rumble past, next. They were ordered to shoot at sight. Fear and the distant clamour of angry mobs hung heavily in the air.

Rafeeq glanced at his bags and mason’s toolkit lined by the door. They were strapped and labeled for Dubai, the city of black gold. If he didn’t reach the airport quickly, he’d be finished. But he’d be shot if he stepped outside. Maybe that would be better than giving in to Shakeel’s demands, he thought whimsically; he was finished anyway.

Shakeel, once his childhood friend. Now Shakeel, the sharpshooter, the fixer, with money to throw around. Shakeel had jeered, "Cowards run away! Real men grab what they want”. Shakeel, the nasty businessman, who’d bartered over the loan for his airfare, “ If you can’t pay us back, join us or we’ll fix you”.

Yet again, a useless riot, he thought, angrily. Why’d this have to happen today, why not next week? Fate was against him, it was all his cursed luck. If only he’d gotten away a day earlier, he thought, despairing. Some uproar over a temple or a mosque from two hundred years ago, in some godforsaken town. Fanatic mobs armed with spears and knives roamed the streets, so they said in the mosque. Fight the bloodthirsty devil, they’d said, wild-eyed, but it wasn’t his battle. He’d just wanted to run.

Masons like him were in demand on large construction projects in Dubai. He’d never wanted to go to that scorching land, not at first. But his father’s hospitalization and funeral debts had overwhelmed him. Dubai’s dirhams would get multiplied many times over in Indian currency. Inshallah, at least it would be honest work, imaan. But maybe God wished otherwise.

Maybe Shakeel was right.

(cue- Oh God! Why me? 317 words)

Go west

In the dark, Amrita saw strands of bright lights, maybe a party was in progress on the lawns. She identified laughter, cutlery and tinkling glass, high-pitched voices and an insistent, insect-like buzz somewhere in the background. No, if you heard closely enough it sounded like a scratchy music tape. Amrita tried to unscramble the words, past the whirr and buzz. “ Oh! Its ‘Go west’ ”, she said, and hummed along.

The next instant she found herself in a vast regal building with impressive arches, vaulted ceilings and polished wooden floors. Colorful paintings lined the walls, and tasseled silk curtains framed large windows. A group of people seemed to be walking around, looking at the pictures, perhaps they were tourists. Amrita was quite surprised to be a part of that group, for it seemed a rather familiar place. A song played somewhere in the distance. Although she strained to hear the words, they were too faint.

Just as suddenly, she found herself on a rickety bus that was climbing up a steep mountain incline. The bus was late, she had a plane to catch, perhaps they’d taken longer than scheduled at the palace. Amrita panicked as she realised how far away the airport was. The bus negotiated a steep curve only to stall before a river in spate. She walked to the rusty bridge, the gushing waters seem to be echoing some words. Amrita was puzzled, she just couldn’t place the words. But if she didn’t find a way out quickly, she’d be finished; it was absolutely critical that she move. Just then, a gaily-decorated camel cart appeared. Amrita laughed at the sight, a camel cart, festooned with bells and garlands, at the boarding gate of a plane. She knew she’d be all right, now.

The alarm trilled loudly. Amrita yawned and shook herself awake, reaching to pick up an US university admission form from her bedside table. “ Go west. Life is peaceful there, go west in the open air” as the song went. She wasn’t confused any longer; her job in India could wait.


(cue- dreaming/imagining, 348 words)

Torn


Mehjabeen sighed as she shut the book that she was reading. In the late dusk a few straggling birds winged their way home. Soon, stars would hold up a velvet sky, and the muezzin would call out from the minaret, age-old words reminding the faithful.

There was a James in the story that she’d just read, a representative of Her Majesty the Queen at the Nizam’s court in Hyderabad. That James had lived happily ever after, even though he wed his beloved, ignoring bloodlines, cultures and lifestyles.

Let’s go away, her James had said. His short assignment almost over in the IT company where she worked, he’d soon return to his life. A different life.

The book made it sound so simple. Perhaps 18th century India was different, she thought wistfully. Perhaps she should just toss a coin. Anything would be better than the shroud of silence she’d crept behind. “Is something the matter, beta?” her mother had asked.

Would there be a scandal? Of course there’d be a scandal! Wasn’t there a scandal all those centuries ago? Gossip and fierce debate in the bazaar, skirmishes in the winding bylanes, a furtive investigation by the authorities, a near uprising.

Couldn’t be as bad. Perhaps they’d ostracize Abba and Ammijaan. Or completely cut off relations, cold shoulder them. Maybe stop all business dealings, she thought, with a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. Stone and ransack the house? Honor killings? Not likely, this was a democracy, right?

Perhaps no one would drop by for a cup of tea or invite them to weddings and functions anymore. Her aunts would nag, sermonize and pick on her mother’s modern ways. No purdah! And learning beyond class five! Computer science! What need did a girl have of such frippery? It just gave ideas and then see what happens! Walking about shamelessly, unveiled and unescorted! Tramping off with a foreigner no less, some James.

Her James. He’d soon return to New York. “Come away!” he’d said, laughing; that telltale gleam in his eye showing how well he understood her. It was uncanny how they could read each other’s minds, with not a word said.

She dialed his number on her cell. She’d have to decide quickly.


(this was a writing sub, cue- Torn)

The Promise

The first drops of rain cooled dry, parched earth that had baked to the mid-forties over the last few months. The air felt magically sharp. The just-about-wet dust was fragrant with that gentle smell called saundhi in the local language.

Neha stretched her hand to let a few drops fall on her palm and trickle down her long fingers. “O’ my great artist!”, Nikhil would’ve teased her. But then, the first shower was magical. Wasn’t that how Nikhil first met her, as she stood all alone in a rain-swept gallery at college? “Are you a poet?” he’d abruptly asked, interrupting her reverie.

They’d a whirlwind courtship. Days seemed to have passed in a blur of laughter, bunked classes, shared coffees, teasing and holding hands; days of gentle rain. They were engaged after monsoon, and married by the year-end. In what seemed a short while, they’d graduated, found jobs, set up home, occasionally quarrelling over things like the color of living room curtains.

Nikhil’s work required a great deal of travel to the cities close by, but he’d make sure to drive back home no matter how late in the night. After one such trip Neha stayed up all night only to hear news of the headlong crash, “nobody’s fault, just bad judgment, fate”. A year after she’d begun to recover, she’d moved to a new city to begin anew.

She forced herself back to the present. “It doesn’t rain in quite the same way in Mumbai”, she murmured. That was right. There, the heavens opened out with all their might and beat down with furious, businesslike intent, much like the city. No one stood a while to smell the first rain.

This trip, she’d picked her treasures. Now she had no reason to return.

( for sub, 293 words)