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.