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

Sand Castle

He drew her face
on the tear dampened sand
But she was gone
before he realized it.
Like the waves of hate
that had consumed
her love the previous week,
she was swallowed
into the ocean
by his folly

At a Crossroad

Mumbai has many Iranis
- a quaint chain of eateries known for their simple ambience,
and an assortment of home-cooked food – that are a rage
amid the lower
and middle-income groups.
It is often said, “If you’ve been to one, you’ve been to them all!”
It is almost true as well
Almost all Irani restaurants are family-run; built at a crossroad between two streets;
have chequered red or green table cloth on their round, glass-topped tables;
use low-backed, wooden chairs, sans armrest; and serve ‘Bun-Pav’
‘Bun-Pav,’ though nothing but a slice of hand toasted bread
served with melting butter and a sprinkling of sugar to go,
is really quite popular
They also specialise in three varieties of tea,
an assortment of fresh breads
and every imaginable preparation of eggs known to man.
Once surprisingly, an otherwise good -natured Irani,
put up a rather rude signboard:
‘Do not enter hotel
for telephone calls, change and addresses.’
People suspected a communal disparity
given the great gulf between fact and reality
Suspicions brewed, tongues waged
Gradually after an extended period of boycott, and non-co-operation,
the place shut down,
and its proprietors went back
to wherever it was they came from in the first place.
Peace was restored
and the locals resumed life as usual.
Years later one among them,
Built
a popular store
on the very premise,
At the crossroad of knowledge and tolerance,
Put up a board that he found in his store room,
with just one minor change
‘Do not enter hotel shop
for telephone calls, change and addresses.’

The Second Lover

She scrubbed passion out
from the crevices of hurt,
and felt cleansed.
Her enthusiasm that had once brimmed over
fell sharply
past the edge of comparison.
Hungry, and long deprived,
she gauged on the meager leftovers
from an emotional feast;
served hot enough
but a little too soon.
In the aftermath, she suffered
from chronic heartburn.
Quasi alive in his arms
she said, “I love you!” for the second time

The Diary of an Insomniac

It was time for the routine night dance;
a time when neon blue lights shone on painted nightmares,
that lay waiting outside the brink of his consciousness.
As demons twirled his head, to the tune of serenading gasps,
sleep spluttered defiantly from the crevasses of his six yr old sanity.
When the waltzing reached a crescendo,
the pictures and abstract forms,
moved daintily across the limited space in his over crowded brain.
They knocked gently at first,
then hammered on the doors of his terrified soul.
Violet streaks shone past his brain as he clammed his eyes shut.
By the time his mother entered the room to kiss him good night, and turn off the soothing lights,
in his carefully decorated, kiddy bedroom, he was already in the midst of his nocturnal companions
His senses drowned in the vacuous depths, of a night condemned to doom

Finding Nirvana

The man at the window seat wore rust robes, oddly shaped wooden slippers, and a nameless expression.
He turned in Damien’s direction and smiled.
It was an eerie sort of smile and Damien felt a rash of goose pimples mushroom under his leather jacket.
There was a nip in the air, and the odd little man’s warm smile fostered the August draft.
Damien decided on conversation to break away from his spell.
“Hi,” he introduced himself. “I am Damien.”
“Buddha,” he offered plainly, and continued showering his affectionate gaze in Damien’s direction.
The rust-robed man quirked his head at an astonishing angle.
The movement was so slow, that Damien panicked.
“Now that’s a laugh” he chuckled nervously as the kind man watched.
His lips never moved, yet Damien was sure his smile had widened
“Perform a miracle! Isn’t that what Gods do?”
Damien was determined to call his bluff.
Suddenly, from somewhere far away, yet not so removed, a child began to weep.
The mysterious man in rust, elegantly traced the sound with his sallow skinned neck.
When he turned toward Damien, his queer expression from earlier,
was replaced by another nameless one
He remained silent but for the earlier introduction.
“Go on,” Damien dared him, “Make me rich, turn into a bat and fly away. Do something … anything!”
The unseen child’s cries reached a deafening frenzy.
There was still no word from the learned one
Before Damien could say anymore,
the torchbearer of Nirvana rose, and walked away from him.
Wordlessly, and without a backward glance, he got off at the next station.
As the hoot of the Train announced its destination, Damien woke up
just in time to get off at his

Envisioning Pain

It was an early winter morning
and the urban humdrum was not yet abuzz
with human invasion
The dim lit alley was nearly empty and very cold.
He walked on casually until he saw her.
She looked about twenty five years old,
wore torn clothes, and a pained look in her tired eyes;
a looked beautiful
and a spitting image of misery.
She did not flinch at his gaze,
and deftly balanced the tattered robe,
on her frail shoulders;
head held proud and high.
The shadowy lights added to her piteous beauty
He took this shortcut to work each day,
but he had never seen her before
Without realizing it, he moved towards her.
In what he later defined as a moment of madness,
he extended his arm to readjust her stubborn drape.
Instantly he heard the janitor’s angry voice
soaring above the pungent aroma of cleaning phenyl;
the voice that he had heard before,
and never heeded yelled,
“You are not allowed to touch the paintings!”

Pawning Desire

“That colour is not attractive enough,”Sigh, she thought, she’d have to wear red.She hated red“Wear something a little see-through, you know …”Laughter burst outShe chose the red chiffon saree.and absently draped it around herself It clung invitingly to her slender form. “Aah! Much better. Now come here.”She returned to sit at the edge of the bedpostwhere the older, more experienced ladies were gatheredThey huddled in. “Don’t you have stone earrings?”She nodded mutely pointing to her top drawer. Someone got the solitaire pair, and expertly replaced her silver drops “Shyamali untie her hair;men like women with their hair left open.” The pin was offDeft fingers snaked the back of her headinadvertently caressing the top of her nape She closed her eyes, shiveringWhen she opened them again, resignation had replaced the fear lurking there. There was no way out for herShe sat around allowing hands to toy with her; touch her without permission The decorations continued up until the last minuteHe would be there soon, and he was; precisely at seven as the middle man had saidEveryone left her side to welcome him With a rare moment to herself she wondered, He was her first …, would he be the last? A tap on the shoulder told her it was time.The hands on her body were back,pulling her to her feet,pushing her towards the enemyWith a weakness in her knee, and a trembling tea-tray in her handshe braced herself for display

Under the Vacant Willow

Enjoying the din of silence
that whispered secrets into silent afternoons
tiny feet rustled sleeping leaves
as they walked up to the rumbling brook
They huddled together
and saw their own future
in the crystal clear, fresh water ripples.
Nature snapped up a memoir for the portrait collection
“Say cheese,” they echoed together
The rest of the afternoon
was a melange of carefree laughter
and muddy fingers pointing to new haunts
away from and around the willow
neighbouring the brook
Eyes recorded pleasure at going there
maybe another time soon.
A little latter they napped
cuddled up in the flowery haven
wearing a warm cloak of unspoken words
resounding from all around the abandoned dell …
where childhood never left its hiding place

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!

Call of the Banded Ribbon

Poised at the start line she watched;
the other contenders, the spectators, the officials …
Flags of a million countries flew high
Her country was well known, but not well represented
either in the stands or in the medal tally
She was always a late beginner
She even woke up late for practice
Her couch would yell
You want to make your dreams come true? Wake up!
Wake up she did not,
yet, no one gave up on her
In the beginning her flair took her strides ahead of the rest.
Soon competition became absent
and she had only herself to contend with
It got painful,
upsetting herself
yet she rejoiced every new defeat
Then one day she began running
fast and hard.
Her determined strides were past caring
Neither the distance nor the sharp cobbles stones, deterred her resolve
The scenery whizzed past, time flew by,
life attained a renewed momentum,
yet it was not clear where she was headed.
Alone and happy, she moved along
saw new places, met new people
and created waves in a terrestrial arena
She sprouted wings and flew above the rest;
felt the air on her face,
and a thrill under her wings
En route the flight of fancy
she once again found herself poised;
fists clenched, body arched, feet firmly rooted, eyes set at the ribbon
she ached from holding back the sprint
Coiled in kinetic concentration,she waited for the gun of life to go off