Friday, November 30, 2007

Reaping is Done

My madam picks her silver spoon, and measures out a soup├žon of dust. And my madam tears the checkerboard asunder, then crawls under and sleeps in a field of rye. So my madam makes a pillow of the spade, and takes the willow for shade to dream a dream of flying away.

But madam, will you say goodbye, wont you let me sing a lullaby and kiss the lonely gaze. Oh, but she has demons to fight and she cant hear me seranade and while she raises her hell tonight, I pick up my hat and leave the masquerade.

Now as I walk down the primrose path of my making, and although that heart is surely breaking, I think I shall soon forget.

And she says
The reaping is done
And knots come undone
Someone tell me if
It is morning yet...

Thursday, November 29, 2007


There is a part of me which shall be forever you
When I plead my case or when you ask
Me to take my coat of
There is a part of me that shall be forever young
When I slide fingers over a mist kissed window pane
When I write my songs, when I try to entertain
Thoughts of walking barefoot on acres wild
There is a part of me which shall be forever cold
When I sit still,smile fixed irreversibly in place
Or when I twist stalks of the first flushes of spring
There is a part of me which shall be forever false
But[smiling]my truth is a cinematic lie
Just hints of rain in a searing sky
And there was no time for revelations....

But I am not sure who wrote these lines
Or why she stops to fold her palms
A part of me
apart from you
Unravelling in troubled arms...


In the category of things she was finicky about; dry hands were an incontestable evil. So before she resumed her conversation Em generously dabbed some Nivea across her palm and idly kneaded with her thumb. The woman standing near the door gave an apologetic half smile and said- " Onek dure thake toh, tae aayeteh parum na" before adding shyly " Polapan'r bap mone korbe". This woman is a curio of her kind with her lilting inflected speech and the guilty appeasing gestures that flowed through her. When she was not talking, she was nervously twisting the end of her sari into complicated knots or surveying the patterns on the floor with downcast eyes. Her brows would suddenly rise at some silent question she was mulling over and the sudden drooping twitch around her mouth would tell you that she had reached some distressing conclusion. Em was amusing herself with this mime show when her mother spoke up, trying to employ all her powers of persuasion.Taking advantage of her mum’s momentary preoccupation, Em cautiously stretched her recently indulged fingers towards the bowl of Saratoga chips that she had been very specifically told to stay away from. Furtively popping some in her mouth, she picked up the pen and carefully jotted down the woman’s reply with its exact mother tongue pull.

“Moving out is a funny business if you think of it. You pull out all the whatnots that years of domesticity brings about in its wake- those greeting cards and scrapbooks with faded ink promising years of friendship, dog-eared volume of books, rusted compass and random sketching pencils strewn over photographs which couldn’t find a place in the family album, an old watch with Mickey Mouse dials forever stuck at 8.30, poems written on postcards or dinner napkins, an old address book which makes me philosophical about the various relations that start with a bang and end with a whimper, butterfly hairclips that some fond aunt gave me when I was seven, old schoolbags with some change still jingle jangling in the long unused pockets, letters which your dad wrote to you when you were learning how to read, piebald beads and dried roses in magazines shoved underneath a chaotic pile of clothes- things carefully hidden from the utilitarian’s world view and fondly kept away beneath the paraphernalia of life as little tokens of love, friendship and memories..."

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Tictactoe...Down You Go.

Naughts and crosses, baby blue
Bullets singing a hymn for you
Hide in holes or die without clue
Hush now, you don’t matter
The government, mad as a hatter
Takes up its hammer to shatter
Your independent point of view

Realpolitik now taking shape
Arson, murder, arson, rape
Dry blood on your videotape
Cry havoc and dead bones rattle
Lying naked in a political battle
Hush, now don’t you prattle
For baby there is no escape

And now the country out of grip
All we do is shoot from the hip
Bloodied hands wring from the crib
So rest in peace all those who died
Rest awhile on the leeward side
But the partisan's words bona fide
Sings an anthem of the cartridge clip.

Saturday, November 17, 2007

Supporting herself against feeble palms pressed down on coarse pebbles, Em quitely listened to the hint of breeze in the branches. Now that all the voices in her head were numbed by the early winter chill, she was quite alone. I wanted to know whether she was thinking about her sixpence spool of coloured yarn or whether she was afraid now that the heavens had splattered ink all over it's floor. But if you could see her then, reclining back on improbabilities, teaching herself half-truths and wouldnt. Instead you would just say-" Isnt that Orion? I think it never looked better than it looks at 3.15 in the morning..."


Daddy can you hear my voice
Calling across the stretch called time
Daddy can you hear my voice
Reading out a memorized nursery rhyme
Daddy can you raise me up
Free me of ghosts beneath my bed
Daddy can you watch me sleep
Daddy is your little girl dead
Daddy patiently pick the flowers
And wear the ragged floral crown
Daddy when they make me weep
Make me laugh, play the clown
Daddy when I grow up
And let the world have it's way
Daddy when I grow up
Old as eternity and a day
Now, eternity and a day being up
Whither can we flee
Daddy bring a sprig of yew
And a last bedtime story for me.

The Keyboard.

Dear Diary, tonight I write
Lines for the stargazer's sake
Mapping the star's hasty flight
Dreaming, half asleep, half awake

Then look up at the firmament
Grey fingers engulf the moon
It's beauty which seemed permanent
Lost in the dark, a bit too soon

Don't turn in your sleep and say
Hope is gone and life, forlorn
Shadows melt with break of day
And life has waited everlong

Everlong, while the human race
Made me think that dreams are gone
And I felt so out of place
I hummed a tune, but forgot the song

Stargazer, look away from your stars
Come down and rest on the ground
And sleep in these moonlit hours
Let dreams spin their magic all around.


woven on this and written for all the stargazers, gazing away in broad daylight.

Thursday, November 15, 2007


I warped the moon while I waited
A thousand beady eyes stared
I went on twisting her sinews
Till her voice was impaired
She croaked like the midsummer crone
I broke the vision of the moon
She struck in hysterics of ire
I burnt her in cold, cold fire
And then you opened the door
The moon was beautiful as before.

Tuesday, November 6, 2007

If i am cured of my sinfully slothful nature, the strip will soon follow.