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.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Friday, March 30, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
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)
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)
Monday, March 05, 2007
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)
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)
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