Monday, January 14, 2008

I am not where you seek for me
In shadows of your aging face
In those tripping beats of poesy
In hesitant hands gathering grace
I am not in your deepest thought
In the scars of your deepest sting
In unreflective love, overwrought
But promises may not mean a thing
I am not in the sun that shines
Or stars that glow in the eve
I am not there in your fondest lines
Softly said when you take your leave
I am just here, anywhere
If I could know that those I see
Are not looking blindly through
An illusion I know as me.

Wednesday, January 9, 2008

Sand and Surf

Rise tonight like a surge's swell
Fall tonight like waves on the shore
Pause awhile, before you bid farewell
Bid farewell, to return once more

Whisper like the sighing shells
Scream like those breakers at sea
And like the hungry tide turning on
Return again to crash into me

Strange like the ocean's end
Distant like the land of dreams
Watching as ripples blend
On the silent sleepy streams

Monday, January 7, 2008

From where she was, Em could see her part of the world beneath her feet...dark silhouettes of buildings under a deep reddish black sky. The world seemed to be reduced to just four colors, the rust of the sky, the charcoal of land, the flashing white of the screaming trains and the glistening yellow from a street light. Em took one last lingering bite from the Bournville bar and slid her hands back into the sock puppet she had made years back for warmth. It was 11:15 yet and she could still hear faint traces of laughter wafting from her house. With preoccupied gestures, her fingers twisted the puppet's face and watched it move from tight lipped stare to a toothless grin.

Its just a night like any other for me but for Em, it means midnight culinary experiments, working around the kitchen with stealthy movements, hoping against hope that her handiwork doesn't turn into some great calamity. So when the girl descended down the stairs, careful not to wake anyone, she must have whispered a silent prayer to the saints to watch over the poor unfortunate souls who would be threatened to take what she cooked tonight. And...what? Oh, Em read this last line and emphatically disagrees. She is asking me to let her write this herself. I always mess up facts, she says. Fine, I pass the reed to Em.

" My mind is a little too preoccupied to form prayers tonight. I have to chop ginger, grind chillies, stop myself from tasting the tangy lemon drops, take dollops of curd and turn on some music for the silence is getting too loud. The recipe says 350 grams of gram flour and I say 200 would do to perfection. The recipe says stir one cup curd...with the flour and water. So I take my time to pour in the water little by little into the bowl as the flour and curd dissolve into each other. I twirl the paste with a spoon and lightly pirouette around the kitchen on the beat of a drum. But that splatters the batter on my wrist so I think I ought to sit on that cold slab there and calmly finish mixing.

Turmeric power, ginger-chili and salt to taste go into the thick rich paste. Keeping a weather eye open for any trouble, I take the steamer out. Its got all these appendages that you need to latch in place and baking dishes that you need to grease before you can change the song. Instrumental rock is just an earworm tonight so I let Yann Tiersen create his magic. tsp of soda tsp oil...and lemon juice. And now that the concoction is made, recipe tells me to pour it into the greased pan and dream happy dreams till the steaming is done"

Friday, January 4, 2008

This is a daft post...seems more like a dental care ad, if you know what I mean[ Toothpaste for the tooth pest to avoid losing your teeth when you need them most] But its been rusting in my folder and I did promise last year about this.

postscript- There is a typo in the image but by now I am convinced that it is most human to make one. Besides, I am giving you the chance to forgive and be divine.

Tuesday, January 1, 2008

Between the Pages.

Telescopic view into your ever eluding mindscape. You move in and out of focus, frozen in frames, farther than you seem, closer than ever. Would my angry muse talk to me again I shall paint you in colors that don't peter, ink you in words that seep deep within my skin, sculpt you anew with careful hands. But my inspiration speaks not to me…and the aching silence hisses the literature of dystopia.

Build me an applecart of perfect order. Place one unquiet memory over another, one hurt over one heal, one you and one me over the silent inscribed presence of all those who came before and left after, till an intricate pattern frees us of the double bind that binds us.