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
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
“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)
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)
Sunday, May 27, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, May 25, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
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.”
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.”
Thursday, May 10, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, April 07, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
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
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
Saturday, March 31, 2007
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.
~
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.
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)
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
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)
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)
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
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)
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)
Saturday, February 03, 2007
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)
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)
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