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