Waiting to Inhale …

Washed ashore to her native beach by an emotional storm,
she knew instantly that something was different;
what, she couldn’t tell.
She vaguely recognised the expressions,
but could not place all the faces that hovered around
The aroma of languid coffee evenings,
and lavender soaked love-making wafted above the salty, costal air,
drowning the silent screams of her ship-wreck saga.
Shortly after her return, some friends drifted away to a distance,
into the private confines of stray rocks.
Others gently turned their back,
casting coy looks over slumped shoulders and heaving breasts.
And then she knew what …
The fisher-girls of her quaint village had new playmates
Corals, coloured shells, pebbles and sea insects meant nothing anymore.
Love was in the air, and had come to stay.
Stung by cold, not caused by her days at sea, she felt alone in an instant;
like a cast away aground her own abode,
lost in a suddenly strange land.

Then one day, boats of varying sizes materialised,
and wisped away the ghosts of her youth,
Her childhood memories eagerly mounted the boats,
to embark upon a journey to a hitherto undiscovered, and mystically unknown land

Uninvolved, she viewed the world through the occasional postcard
and traced a small Towner’s growth from friend to lover, wife to mother
The epistle ballads often paid ode to her luck with solitude
Yet she ached for the pain of motion, and the agony of conjugal complications
Her tired feet were sore from a static inertia,
that waiting on the shore for her boat to magically appear, brought her.
She finally cast a net in baited breath and waited …
With each passing wave, her net returned empty handed
and gradually lost its beauty to the onslaught of the sea
Ripped up, it let even the occasional fish slip by.
Days turned to months,
The nights got cold, and the days of waiting colder;
and yet time refused to pass for one child-woman of the fisher-folk.

Sometimes a good tide, briefly brought back her companions
They were glad to find at least one part of their lives unchanged
and immensely thankful for the loneliness of a singular fisherwoman,
who still casts her frayed net out into the sea each day,
only to sleep hungry, each night!

Tracking Desire

He stood before her,
trembling silently with urgency
Her thigh burned
where his hand had been
His defiant patience was unsettling
Even in the heat of the moment,
he kept his cool
seconds ticked
and neither movedShe prayed for him
to magically disappear
This is so wrong, she thought
“Why can't I be stronger?
A little stubborn, surer…?”He sensed victory as she sighed softly,
and triumphantly inched closer;
like a watchful predator
toying with it’s game,
rejoicing its meek surrender
In that moment of weakness
she was lost,
and he knew it
Yet he waited for her to move
and his restraint tormented her.After an eternity, her hands moved
and found him
the smallest coin
in her purse.
The train chugged
as hard as her thudding heart
and the little urchin traipsed off
richer in confidence and coin,
to yet another woman

A Little to the Left

he stopped the car
a safe distance from the highway’s free-left exit
at a few meter’s distance
a dog’s carcass was being scrapped
out of the newly tarred road
he did not notice it
but she did
and made a face,
as the stench of death drifted lazily
he began talking
“This may come as a shock …”
but she did not listen to him
she was watching the municipal workers
“I am leaving …”
as they flung the inedible pâté
into a parked garbage truck
“You have the freedom …”
and walked back purposefully
to the electric lamppost
“It would make me happy …”
they would clean the place up
and return she concluded
turning to him.
His last words were lost to the blast
of the passing vehicle’s horn
he was bent over the steering wheel
muffling his voice further
what, she asked
he turned to look at her
her otherwise pretty face looked sad
and a lone tear
found its way to her quivering lips
he struggled with the right words
and not finding any,
remained silent
She sank into his shoulder
and let the tears flow
In the cornucopia of time that elapsed
She wept for the dog
and he squirmed with discomfort,
suspicious that she was begging him
to take her back again

In the Month of May

She sat at the window
watching the flaming orange flowers
Gulmohars were in fact her favourite
They swayed in the wind,
like thoughts in a dream
creating a sharp contrast
with the dull blue sky
It was nearly June.
The clouds were turning
a darker shade of grey,
and the sun was shining less brightly
She could already smell the wet mud
and hear the crackling wood
burnt by the homeless
on Mumbai’s harsh monsoon streets;
there was no escape for them
As she stopped to look
at the cottage cheese salad
laid out before her
a fresh surge of nausea overtook her
She wondered for how long
could the secret
nestled dangerously deep
within her womb remain hidden
After all, May was almost over

A Mid Afternoon’s Dream

It was the middle of the day;
a warm, late May afternoon
The voices of spicy gossip
brewing fast and furiously in
the adjoining passenger seat
lazily wafted Anita’s way
She heard some fervent malice
as also some delectable accords
edged with expert ill intentions
She searched with her ears,
eyes shut, pretending to sleep;
but heard no good will calling
as far as her ears could go …
She sensed a station had come
and gone just as quickly,
when she heard a compulsive,
Phew-Phew, in a brand new voice
attacking her sensitive ears
Anita felt, rather than saw
her new travel companion,
fanning her thyroid enlarged neck,
with the edge of her saree
Undoubtedly, feeling no respite
from the sultry, pre-monsoon heat
she ceaselessly nudged
at her side of Anita’s ribs,
in a vain attempt to cool off
Anita gave up pretending then,
and blinked absently toward
the arch that led to her side
of the ladies’ compartment
Even with her eyes open,
she heard her first,
even before sensing her
loud and clear,
before she appeared at the archway;
the lady who sold dhoklas -
a yellow coloured velvety snack,
made from fermented chickpea dough
Then suddenly, almost magically,
Anita’s attacker stopped puffing
and traced the snack vendor
with an expression of,
what Anita could only image was
open-mouthed abashed ness
The hoarse voiced seller
sailed through the makeshift pathway
past several interested buyers,
that seated themselves edgily
upon faded brown, wooden benches.
Anita’s companion made a move;
Probably her ebony skinned hands
snaked into her purse
and eked out a five-rupee coin
that shone proudly on her plump hand
Without a single word,
and with a marginal shake of the head,
the deal was sealed,
and the lady resumed her attack
on Anita’s feeble sides,
as she devoured the snack with relish
Yet again, staring straight ahead,
Anita heard rather than saw
her lips smacking noisily
against one another,
running her tongue over them,
stopping to taste the salt
and biting down a little extra hard
upon the un-popped mustard seasoning
Then suddenly, without warning,
the chomping sounds were replaced
by a razor sharp whooshing sound and
the tone of the cubicle altered radically
There was pandemonium all over
and a variety of sounds filled the air;
scrapes, skirmishes, yells, squeals …
But Anita did not hear them,
for a change …
She felt the pristine caress
of the ice-cold rain
on her summer parched face
Eyes closed, she trailed off
to another world, far away,
where she was a beautiful princess
trapped in a tall, dark and distant fortress,
which had ivy clad stone walls
and where the shades on a rainy day
were grey and green;
a muted sort of multicoloured grey and
a freshly washed leaves’ shade of green
Anita opened her eyes vacantly
and some drops escaped far enough
to wash away her mid-day dream
She resisted the urge to rub away the drops,
craned her neck further upwards
towards the window,
enjoying the attack
Just as suddenly as it had started to rain,
the chilly onslaught on her face stopped;
someone had shut the window on her side
Naturally she could not see who;
she was too far gone with her reverie,
to even hear it happen.
When the stench of enclosed breathing,
furled up to her nostrils, it choked her
and her vacant eyes smarted painfully

Palette of Ironies

It was the eleventh day…
Hugging her knees to her,
Kaveri played the bride’s part to perfection; bright red Saree, multicoloured glass bangles, a large Bindi…
Yet her eyes were sad and blood shot.
Her pretty face was smeared with blotches of Kohl.
That’s when she saw Kumar, through a fresh curtain of tears.
It is a brother’s responsibility…
With clinical stupor,
Kumar reached for Kaveri’s forehead.
First he roughly erased the vermilion traces of her nuptials
Then he and slammed her wrists,
onto a decorated grinding stone.
The widow-making ceremony
was completed, successfully
Later, after the feast,
when the elders had retired for a nap,
some kids assembled around the sacrificial spot, wondering about the broken bangles
The brave amongst them stepped up and began collecting the pieces
of Kaveri’s shattered fate.
He made a Kaleidoscope for his school science project,
and won an award for his ingenuity;
life breathed on cruelly ...

The Cracked Mirror

He picked up a hair strand
from the pillow next to his own,
and caught a shadow
moving along the crack
of the bathroom door.
As he raised
his heavy with sleep face,
and dizzily blinked away
the previous night’s cocktail hangover,
he caught a glimpse
of the face in the mirror
It didn’t look familiar
But he was sure he recognised
the expression lurking there
As the night’s vivid images
flashed before his eyes,
the reflection of sin stared blankly
at the image of fear
crawling all over his face