Derring Dos

A random girl

2012-02-16T04:21:00.000-08:00

A random girl
With a random face
At a random time
In a random place

A random movie
In a random hall
A random conversation
I can't remember at all

A random hill
And a random walk
A random key
In a random lock

A random room
A random smell
A random tryst
With a random spell

A random low
And a random high
A random bus
A random goodbye

A random girl
But never mine
Was she all random
Or by design?

Aftermath

2012-01-30T10:15:00.000-08:00

They had a celebration
While I was away
There's multi-coloured paper
Littered on the freeway

There's even a chair
That you had sat upon
Fingermarks upon the glass
Where a thread was torn

A windswept battlefield
Where broken armours lie
A bumpy runway
Where the airplanes hide

A coral reef so
Many leagues below
And a stranger's laugh
That I will never know

Arrivals and Departures

2011-12-21T10:27:00.000-08:00

They published
A new book
Called "His Master's Singing"
Its selling by the dozen
I hear

I haven't heard
From you lately
And now the phone is ringing
Its a pity that
The line isn't clear

Fogged up
Or just mesmerized
These two states
I recognize
Anarchy and order
Dismantle and create

Sobered up
Or on the juice
I'm despairing
Or bemused
Arrivals and departures
Too early or too late

My mistakes
Are monumental
And to the plot
They aren't central
Its a take-it-or-leave-it
The rule of the thirds

My train
Isn't leaving
And seeing
Is believing
They're taking no prisoners
In this battle of words

Fogged up
Or just mesmerized
These two states
I recognize
Anarchy and order
Dismantle and create

Chain me up
Or turn me loose
If you agree
I will refuse
Arrivals and departures
Too early or too late

There's a tune
On the telly
That I just can't remember
I know that I heard it
When I was three

Its sunny out here
But its
Snowing in China
You can't trust the weather
You see

Twilight

2011-12-19T07:21:00.000-08:00

Twilight is nearing
Shadows appearing
Can't tell what
Tomorrow will bring

My burdens are many
My friends aren't any
And I am too tired
To sing

A few grains of sand
I had in my hand
Tightened my fist
So I could hold

I walked through the years
But I couldn't hear
What each grain of sand
Had foretold

At the foothills of night
At the end of all light
At the dwindling of
All of my years

If joy I account
It's too few to count
The rest can be measured
In tears

Postcard

2011-12-15T21:14:00.000-08:00

I'm riding on
The top of a bus
I don't know how
You are or how
You feel about us

When you are here
There is this
Persistent swing
I see a bit of you
In every little thing

When you are gone
I lose my compass
Like someone wiped
A dirty rag across
A sheet of glass

All my decisions
Made as if a whim
Each day I feel
A little less
I grow a second skin

And now the bells
Here ends this bumpy ride
These words are brief
Enough to fill
A postcard for my pride

Old Shoes

2011-12-15T00:39:00.000-08:00

Old Shoes
I'll wear you now
I'll take a step if
You show me how

The path is barren
The path is old
Your leather is cracked
As is your sole

But I know you well
And me you know
Right from my heel
Down to my toes

We've walked together
Through sun and rain
Up many a stair
Down many a lane

There are finer boots
In the window sill
But despite your years
You are finer still

So as a companion
Its you I choose
My partner in crime
My Old Shoes

Hippos

2011-12-13T10:01:00.000-08:00

In a kingdom
Far beneath the ground
The hippopotamus
Do abound
They roll and play
Out in the mud
They jump in the air
And land with a thud

A different beast
Is the hippogriff
Their beaks are sharp
Their backs are stiff
In general demeanour
They resemble your aunt
Minus the spectacles
A cadaverous slant

So if you have to choose
I must tell you this
Pick the hippo and give
The hippogriff a miss

Tea in technicolor

2011-12-01T03:20:00.000-08:00

I spoke to you
Last night in a dream
In front of us a table
White linen, a bowl of cream
Three slashes of sunlight
From a window on the side
We're having tea in technicolor
And drifting in a tide

Nowhere girl

2011-11-18T11:01:00.001-08:00

How the fine spring day
Dwindles to dusk
How the strands of night
Leaves no room for us
Nowhere girl
With her nowhere eyes
When you want time to crawl
It flies

A cold cup of coffee
I sadly sip
A glossy magazine
I casually rip
No change is due
And my train is late
And the starless sky
Just an empty slate

How my heart beats slow
And then its a drum
How the engine growls
Before it hums
Nowhere girl
Below the nowhere eaves
When you want her to stay
She leaves

A porter hands me
A metal card
The train awakens
And moves a yard
I'm headed nowhere
And there's nothing I feel
Far away from you
In a box on wheels

This and that

2011-09-29T00:45:00.000-07:00

Channels and waves
Masters and slaves
Strangers and kin
Outside and in
Parrots and beaks
Shallows and peaks
Timid and might
Perfume and plight
Narrow and broad
Even and odd
Blessed and damned
Sheltered and slammed
Aged and new
Too much and too few

The Way I Do

2011-09-28T19:48:00.000-07:00

Skies filled with
Hurricanes
Skies filled with
Sand
Skies filled with
Promises from
Never-never land
And although our dreams
May be smokey
Prophesies
That are untrue
Noone could
Ever love you
The way I do

Whatever happened
Yesterday
Whatever happened
Last
Whatever happens
Tomorrow
Is not written
In the past
And although your train
May be leaving
You don't have to
Be leaving too
Noone could
Ever love you
The way I do

Morning

2011-09-25T19:38:00.000-07:00

the stars have aligned
the seagulls have spoken
the rain has subsided
the sun has awoken

the crickets are done chirping
the birds now hover
a rainbow stretches
my cup runneth over

radioactive rum

2011-09-23T10:44:00.000-07:00

not quite dusted
not quite certain
never fed up
or full
dig out the bottle
take a deep swig
and you may fly
like a seagull

with arrowheads
for your companions
and a rainbow
for your personal slave
you can polish
your mean temperament
and make sure
that he behaves

make sure that
it is five clock
and your slippers
are very dry
make sure that
Jack the ripper
is not slaughtering
on the sly

the mistakes of
your predecessors
and the folly
of all your kin
its not too hard
to feel alarmed
when threatened
by a safety pin

the written
is soon forgotten
and the spoken
is never heard
the announcer left
for a consonant
with her vowels
impeccable
unslurred

skinny female vampire

2011-09-20T11:22:00.000-07:00

she was a skinny female vampire
with her neck out on the line
she slept in pinewood caskets
lined with bloody valentines

she was a skinny female vampire
with her lips of ruby red
a fang or two of crimson hue
quite blissfully undead

she was a skinny female vampire
her face a permanent frown
she was growing steadily batty
from all that hanging upside down

she was a skinny female vampire
with her face of ashen white
as nervous a shrew as nosferatu
was a creature of the night

she was a skinny female vampire
some skin but mostly bones
she was never one for the Beatles
she liked her rolling stones

the shimmering valet

2011-09-16T10:31:00.000-07:00

jeeves appears
with his pick-me-up
the dog bartholomew
barks
aunt agatha chews on
broken bottles
and gussie sneaks around
when its dark

florence wants to
mould poor bertie
and honoria wants it
too
bertie just wants to be
left alone
what ho pip pip
toodle-oo

the cowcreamer is
an old eyesore
sir watkyn wants it
bad
sir roderick's in charge
of a looney hatch
thinks all of London
is Mad

aunt dalhia is
in debt again
and uncle tom
won't pay
anatole has
put in his papers
its quite
a dismal day

gussie pretends
that he's vegetarian
to impress
his madeline
while spode wants
to pickle his innards
in orange juice
laced with gin

stiffy cant marry
stinker
tuppy cant angela
wed
on bobby's advice
bertie pokes a needle
into sir roderick's
hot water bed

with things this bad
its upto jeeves
to spread sweetness
and light
it all turns out
ok in the end
dont thank him
its quite all right

Eyes

2011-09-13T23:21:00.000-07:00

I like the way
You emphasize your eyes
I like the way
You look at me

I like the words
Your eyes can say
Even when
Your lips don't speak

Places that we knew

2011-08-18T03:10:00.000-07:00

Its not your scent in the air
That makes me aware
Of all the things in the past
That we went through
Its just the sight of a man
In a demolition van
Coming out of the
Places that we knew

An old cafe
A noodle bar
A starry hotel
Fit for movie stars
Revolving bar stools
And candle lights
Have upped and vanished
Into the night

Its not the songs that you loved
Nor the miles that we drove
In our quest to find
The perfect cup of brew
Its just a broken down wall
Of an old movie hall
That reminds me of the
Places that we knew

Dead to right

2011-07-26T23:13:00.001-07:00

Summer's not dead
Its merely feigning
The fillings in your teeth
Are paining
The columns or the post
Of the tower hides a ghost
He jumps unwary travelers
When it's raining

Old Fashioned Fluff

2011-07-26T22:26:00.001-07:00

I rhymed a word
I made a cloud
Old fashoned fluff
An elaborate shroud
I flapped a wing
A feather fell
She swished a wand
And all was well

Between

2011-07-26T22:25:00.000-07:00

In the space between your ribs
Your heart thumps
In the corner of your eye
The tear drops clump
In that instant flash of pain
When you hammer your thumb

In the space between the hours
The minute stands
In the shallow of the water
There hides a land
In the shadow of a doubt
There rests a man

Between the moments of
Wakefullness & sleep
Store your smile
Between the slopes of
Sand & silver
Hang your tears to dry
Between despair & hope
Let hope
Rise up like mercury

Tuesday, 4am

2011-07-26T22:12:00.000-07:00

Who is it that rings my doorbell at 4am on a rainy Tuesday morning?
Ghost or Goblin? Friend or foe? Or the shadow of a lost opportunity too timid to knock?

I claw away at the last cobwebs and stagger towards the door. It has been raining steadily for the last 6 hours. Desperate last-ditch rain filling up the ditches and the upturned mouths of the toads and the snails that didn't get washed away or squashed underfoot. I look around as I stagger through the hallway. The piano looks grumpy and un-played and a layer of fine dust demands an apology. The clothes horse looks overburdened & steamy by the last wash that refuses to dry. A flurry of old pizza bills lie scattered on the floor like the evidence of a half-hearted cleanup after a ticker tape parade.

I manage to reach the door without any incident by which time I am firmly convinced that this is surely a hoax or a fine figment of my imagination. Nobody I mean nobody rings my bell except the cleaning lady, the garbage man and the watchman and none of them do business at this hour. Oh and I forgot, the pizza guy. But the pizza place shuts at 11 and I don't remember ordering in my sleep. So hells bells I tell myself and am all shut-eyed and ready to head right back to bed when it happens again. A buzz on the buzzer loud enough to wake the entire building and signifying by its persistence not only an aberration but an emergency.

I hold the metal door handle to steady myself. The door handle comes off in my hand, then slips its grasp and almost misses my toes. I hop around for a bit and curse a bit. The buzzer goes off again quite vexed at my ineptitude and these uncalled for delays. I reach up for the solitary latch, make sure to get a good grip and yank it down. With a click the latch slides out. I pull the latch to open the door. And a steady gust of wind from without swells against the door with one shoulder and seems to assist me. The lights go out.

Stillness. The rain has been thorough. What greets my eye is mud and a bottomless pool of dark water where the stairway must have stood once. A single passage light barely illuminates the fact that around me the next three apartment doors have half ajar doors. There is no one else in sight. No sound except that of the rain. The row of dead moth wings swirling in the water at my foot seem to almost form a question mark.

Bengali Boy

2011-04-03T03:19:00.000-07:00

Another Bengali Boy
Now a Bengali Man
Checkered red shirt
Tucked into his pants

A moustache like Mandrake
Slightly thinning at the scalp
Smelling of Charminar cigarettes
And Ponds Dreamflower talc

Silk saree clad wife
Little child and all
Smiling for posterity
In front of the Taj Mahal

When do sons become fathers
And fathers become old men?
Why are all our nows
Just a reflection of our thens?

Transformation

2011-03-26T06:39:00.000-07:00

Picture this
A crown of thorns
For the martyr
And the lovelorn

A drop of water
Clear and blue
An open mouth
To fall into

A well lit face
No shadows here
A welcome smile
For a souvenir

A leap of faith
A thin red line
A crumpled heart
For a valentine

Been walking long
A bench to sit
A magazine
To go with it

A walking stick
Some crumbs of bread
Chase them or keep
The pigeons fed

A canoefull of cannibals

2011-03-10T04:08:00.000-08:00

Hiding in the coral reefs, our breaths fitting to burst, we saw the shadows of the canoes pass over us in the emerald water. We were all of 5 years old, fresh into the jungle and new to the printed word. The bright yellow leopard skin that our saviour wore was in sharp contrast to the blood red ceremonial log that we were lashed onto. There was paint on our hands, paint on our faces and war drums in our ears.

A dead mans skull wrapped in jewels was kept on the forest floor nearby. An arrow head protruded from his eye socket. Little maggots crawled and sucked upon the sap that dripped from the rubber tree. The whoops and hollers and the sounds of distant drums announced that a feast was about to begin. The air was ripe with the smell of honey and the buzzing of flies. The olive green canopy bent under the weight of the swarming tribes slithering soundlessly. The ropes were tight. Escape was impossible. It seemed we had come all this way for nought. To be caught and to be eaten. Our mission a failure. Our adventures a series of disasters.

And then - a miracle. A flash of yellow leopard skin and the glint of an unsheathed dagger. A yell to jangle your nerves. Something sliced through our ropes. Someone hissed in our ears. And snap went the covers of the hard bound tale. And there we were. Face to face with the most fiersome enemy yet. Vile and cunning. Persistent and predatory. Tenacious and tyrannical.

Homework.

Hi. How are you?

2011-03-09T06:47:00.000-08:00

I have a co-worker who says "Hi. How are you?" to me at least five times a day. Five days a week. Never waits for an answer & strolls ahead and says it to the next person he encounters. Reaches the end of the path and does a 180 turn. Rinse and repeat.

"Hi. How are you?" This is the only one-sided exchange I've had with him in the two years I've been in this department. I've tried avoiding him to the best of my abilities. I pretend he doesn't exist. I avoid looking at him whenever we are passing each other but that doesn't deter him in the slightest. He would say "Hi. How are you?" to my shadow and walk right off. Sometimes I think he has a daily "Hi. How are you?" quota to meet or just a debilitating "stuck-in-the-groove-record" disease. Or maybe its just too much good upbringing & etiquettery.

The funniest thing is that this monotonous blathering has got nothing whatsoever to do with his general concern for the well-being of his colleagues, co-workers and the rest of humanity. (Hell he probably begins his day by mumbling his shallow greetings to a bowl of cereal) His facial expression is more or less set to a "reasonably polite but disinterested" mode and his body language at "avoid meaningful exchanges at all costs". The truth is there for all to see: He doesn't care how I am. He just can't help asking about it.

So guess my surprise when I bumped into him in the last week of December of the year past. Like a fawn trapped in front of headlights, I tried in vain to side-step him and be on my way, but as he blocked my escape with alacrity, I heard him utter a new (for him) phrase before marching down the corridor leaving me shattered and groping the walls for moral support:

"Marry Christmas!"

Right there! Right there was the answer to the mystery & usefullness of the stock phrase and the pitfalls that stepping off the straight and narrow brings. Since then I have encountered a few more examples of these verbal deviations (like the time I overheard him describing a film movement as "Franch New Wave") all of which has made me a little more tolerant to his standard shallow mouthings.So these days when he passes me by, I no longer grunt in silence or pretend to be a part of the woodwork. If he's still around after saying his piece, I have a snappy retort of my own. Our brief exchanges sound like this:

Him: "Hi. How are you?"

Me: "Vary Well"

The Kite

2011-02-03T06:45:00.000-08:00

Kite with one eye

Hanging on a tree

Motionless and yellow

Looking down at me

Kite with one eye

Raggedy and thin

Sticks for his bones

Paper for his skin

Stuck up in a branch

At the mercy of the wind

The squirrel pecks his nose

The bird pulls at his string

Oh to soar again is

A dream he dare not think

The clouds never seemed so distant

The sunset never so pink

Hark a gust of wind

Neither a storm nor a gale

Trickles across his face

Tugs upon his tail

Then with a whooshing sound

The branches of the tree

Shrug their shoulders as if awakened

And the one-eyed kite is free

Looking neither left nor right

He takes off like a dart

But a sudden branch pokes in

And pierces through his heart

Pebbles

2011-01-23T09:29:00.000-08:00

A handful of pebbles
By the sea
I picked them up
And took them home with me

I washed them clean
Of all the sand
That hadn't stuck
To my own hand

Then I arranged them
On a table
In the best manner
That I was able

I shut my eyes
As each stone I felt
As a letter then
I carefully spelt

The hand was mine
The name was yours
And the sound in my ears
Was an ocean's roar

I drowned for a while
Then opened my eyes
And softly bid
The waves goodbye

Ghimli's red bag

2011-01-16T21:12:00.000-08:00

Here she comes. Over the creaky wooden bridge. Her big red bag swinging side to side. Tinkling mysteriously. Sounds of beaded chains and muffled laughter. Along both sides of the street, the windows on the houses slam shut. Doors are latched. The air itself stands still. And the children in the playground scatter. No dark closet or the whack off the back of a hand could sum it up better.

The wind that slips in through the holes on the rusty locks squeaks it out in a gasping rasping voice: Run. Don't be beguiled by her misleading smile. Or the hum of her hypnotic song. Or the shower of candy each wave of her hand seems to bring. Listen to the quiet voice at the back of your little minds. And run run away.

No one knows when she first appeared. Over the creaky wooden bridge. Her red bag and her big wide smile smiling at no one and everyone. Eyes that glowed under a mop of wild hair. Ever restless ever searching. Eyes that lit up when she first saw you. When her high-pitched hum grew louder and the hair on the back of your neck stood up. When your feet seemed rooted to the ground and your heart started sinking in some invisible quagmire. When the whole focus of your existence seemed to be drawn towards the whirlpool of her unfathomable song. When your feet moved on your own and your teeth wouldn't stop chattering. When the world grew blurry and the wind moaned like a lullaby. When her bag opened and enlarged like the looming mouth of a circus tent. And swallowed you whole.

Then there was peace. The wind subsided. Windows were opened - slowly and creakily. Voices were heard, first as whispers & then rising. No sight remained of Ghimli. Just rumors and nine o clock shivery tales. And the echoes of laughter of the lost children.

Years

2011-01-11T21:06:00.001-08:00

The new year
Weaves its way within
Like a silent train
Just pulling in

While the old year
Gets its fires stoked
And disappears
With a puff of smoke

Tea at my Aunt’s

2010-12-20T07:31:00.000-08:00

Somewhere in the by lanes of C.R.Park, that Bong ghetto whose only redeeming features consist of the deep fried chicken cutlets & mutton chops fried in five day old engine oil, stands a two story house with an iron staircase next to a kathal (jackfruit)tree. At least, I assume it’s still standing, as I haven't visited this house since the event which I am about to narrate. And that happened nearly twenty years ago, when I was but a wee lad of 15.

The house belonged to my aunt, my dad's elder sister or pishi as I would call her. Forty five or fifty five, it was hard to tell how old she really was. She wasn't particularly tall & wore thick rimmed glasses with foggy frames and a white sari. Dad and she weren't on particularly good terms due to some unspecified dispute of long ago. But she always had a kind word for me, Japanese tea & a box of ginger biscuits handy. So on cold wintery evenings, after my Math tuition, I would often drop in for an unofficial visit at her place.

She stayed on the second floor, the first being leased to tenants who were also second cousins or something. A highly nosy bunch, the peeping behind the curtain kinds, who liked to keep tabs on the traffic inflow of the entire neighbourhood. Not that my aunt had too many visitors. She had been staying alone in this house for 15 years or so at the time of this story & had few visitors except the occasional tradesmen.

Thirteen years before this story begins, at 3pm, my uncle, a senior official in the Foreign Office, swallowed a Rusk biscuit the wrong way and choked to death. Later on, it was discovered, that he had simultaneously suffered a heart attack. A tall and amiable man, he left my aunt well provided for with a pension. When my uncle was alive, the house was bustling with guests (and that included my parents) constantly. Long evenings with drinks and food on the house and music blaring on the Philips record player. It turned out that a whole lot of friends and relatives owed my uncle quite a bit of money who vanished discreetly from the scene on his vanishing. Leaving my aunt, the gracious hostess, stranded on the first floor suddenly devoid of a husband, friends and a family.

The years passed, and she seemed to age fast, shrivelling almost with the seasons. The power on her spectacles grew, her sari lost its crisp starchiness & the show cases on the wall acquired the look of a museum whose clientele had long lost interest in the artefacts therein.

When I was a kid, I used to accompany my parents to my aunt's house. I must have met my late uncle once and did not have any memories of him except how tall he was and how his eyes seemed to twinkle mischievously behind his glasses. The trips grew very infrequent and then stopped completely after I hit my teens, and there was a year or two when I hadn't met my aunt at all. When I turned 14, I got a bicycle and also started going for tuitions. The tutor used to teach from his house which was just a block away from my aunt's. So I would cycle over to her place after class and spend 10 minutes or so sipping tea and catching up with her, after which I would make a dash for my home. Any longer a stay would prompt questions at home, a situation I was quite keen to avoid. My aunt would enjoy my periodic visits, short as they were, and refer to me as 'the comet'.

On the day of this story, I had just received the results for a pre-board math test conducted by my tutor. I had barely passed and was dreading my parents' reaction at home. So I was feeling quite miserable and wanted to delay the inevitable unpleasantness for as long as possible. I hadn't visited my aunt for over a month. Since she didn't have a phone, it was never possible for me to inform her in advance when I was going to come over. But since she was nearly always home, I decided to go and meet her on this particular evening.

At around 6:30 pm, when the sky was turning steadily red and bleak, I wheeled my bike into the little lane that led to my aunt's house. This evening was no different than all the other evenings I had visited her before. And yet the air felt chillier and I attributed it to my current state of mind. Even the road seemed deserted except for a solitary peanut seller I passed on the way. Finally I reached the lane where my aunt's house was, and as was my usual practice, parked my bike at the beginning of the lane and walked to her house on foot.

The street lamp was lit and a bunch of moths with a death wish were flying frenziedly around. I lifted the latch on the Iron Gate softly and stepped in. The curtains on the ground floor windows were dirty and drawn and the unlit window led me to conclude that the tenants must be out. Heaving a sigh of relief, I started mounting the iron staircase that led up to my aunt's place. The kathal tree was loaded with the thorny fruit; a few ripe ones had fallen on the ground and split out its contents, that explained the ripe fruit smell I'd smelt as I had stepped in. There was a small spiked iron gate on the top of the stairs that my aunt always kept locked. There was a doorbell next to the lock that visitors were supposed to ring. I usually skipped this formality and jumped over the gate. The sound of my feet hitting the floor is what would usually alert my aunt that I had arrived and she would open the main door a minute later with a smile on her face.

I jumped the gate and landed on the other side. Then walked over to the main door on the left. The light seemed to be switched off, which told me that my aunt might have fallen asleep while watching her afternoon soap. It was getting a bit chilly. A couple of houses away a radio was playing an old Hindi film song. I tapped gently on the door and felt my mark sheet in my back pocket. I thought I heard some footsteps inside and the creaking of a chair. I peeked in through the dusty window to catch a glimpse inside and saw a moving flame approaching. Then the front door opened with a click and there was my aunt in her trademark white sari, holding a candle in a porcelain cup.

It took her a while to recognize me. It was almost as if she was expecting someone else. After peering in the dark for a bit she smiled and said: "Ah, it’s you, The Comet. Come in. There's been a short circuit and I couldn't get the electricians to come over. I left three messages at the grocer’s in the morning but I was feeling too c-cold to go over to the market now"

"I can inform them on my way out", I told my aunt, while keeping my bag on the floor and sitting down on my favourite corner chair. My aunt smiled and after placing the candle on the centre table, shuffled off to the kitchen. Shortly, I heard the gas being lit and the kettle being filled from the tap. I looked around. In the dim candle light, the museum seemed to be sparkling. My aunt and uncle had travelled a lot during his various postings, so there were a lot of curios from all over the world, especially Japan. A pair of white Siamese cats always fascinated me with their life-likeness. This evening they looked like they were almost purring with delight. Likewise, there was a smiling woman in a kimono and an umbrella with a nodding head in a glass case. Today she seemed to nodding her head to the tune of some unheard song. Directly opposite my chair, there was a side-table, which had a framed black and white picture of my uncle. The candle was reflected in the glass and his eyes seemed to be amused and twinkling.

"Two cubes or three?" my aunt's voice said very close to my shoulder.

I started as I hadn't heard her return, lost in my thoughts. The usual tea tray was on the table with three cups, a kettle, a milk jug and a plate of ginger biscuits on it.

"Two", I said and my aunt dropped two cubes in my cup with a pair of dainty ivory tongs.

"Have some biscuits", she said passing me the plate. I bit into a crunchy ginger biscuit and reached for my cup.

“Hmm...hmmm, hmmm”, my aunt was humming a tune.
I looked at her surprised; I had never heard her sing or hum before. Although not un-tuneful, it did remind me of the steam escaping the tea kettle a while ago.

“It’s a tune I learnt in Tokyo. It was quite popular in the early Sixties”, explained my aunt.

“Ue o muite arukoo
Namida ga kobore nai yoo ni
Omoidasu haru no hi
Hitoribotchi no yoru”

She sang in a high but tuneful voice. And then stopped.
I was looking at the doll in the glass jar, her head had definitely started nodding faster almost in time with the rhythm of the song. But now was slowing down almost to a stop.

“Now I remember.”, said my aunt. “ Sukiyaki, that was the name of this song!”

“What does it mean?”, I asked.

Silence. My aunt seemed to be gazing into space or listening out for something.

“Pishi?”, I prompted again

“Its...its about a man walking alone at night and whistling. He’s looking up so his tears won’t fall on the ground.”

“Why is he alone?”

“Because...the song doesn’t say that.”

She picked up her cup and sat down in an adjacent chair. She seemed quite energetic suddenly. There was a flush on her cheek and a strand of hair had managed to escape her firmly combed back hair and drift across her forehead.

I sipped the tea. It was delicious and warm, and made me feel welcome and at home. I decided to spill the beans about the test paper.

"Pishi, I got my pre-board Math paper today", I said pushing the papers towards her.

"And how did you do?" said my aunt, not reaching for the papers.

"Not too good, scraped through actually. You want to take a look?"

I looked up and saw my aunt a little distracted looking at her left towards the main door. The cup of tea in her hand was untouched and was trembling a little bit.

"Pishi? You're expecting someone?"

My aunt didn't answer and stood up and walked near the door. "He's late", she muttered under her breath.

"Who? The electrician? Don't you want to see my paper?"

"Keep it on the table and don't bother me now" my aunt replied in a slightly snappy tone.

I felt hurt at this unexpected and unaccustomed rudeness. I quickly glugged down the rest of the tea, kept the cup down & got up suddenly.

I pretended to look at my wrist watch and said a bit haughtily:

"I think I'd better go home now".

No response.

"Ok I'm off", I said, in a louder tone now.

At this my aunt turned and looked at me. The smile on her face had vanished and replaced by a frown. She looked like she was about to say something to me when we both heard the sound of whistling & footsteps crunching on dry leaves. The whistling stopped. The latch of the downstairs gate opened.

A smile relaxed my aunt's face as she rushed out to the balcony. I followed after her curious to see who this mysterious guest was. The streetlamp bathed the balcony in orange light as we looked down. The leaves of the kathal tree looked like the ramparts of a fortress. A tall figure latched the gate and started ascending the stairs. His footsteps echoed on the iron steps. He started whistling again.

My wrist felt chilly where my aunt gripped it in sudden excitement.

"You can show him your paper", she said. "Your uncle was always good in Maths".

DC-iphering

2010-11-29T01:05:00.000-08:00

Isn't Green Arrow's beard
A giveaway
Isn't Robin's tights
A scream?

Why Clark Kent's glasses
Do not melt
When he fires those
Gazer beams?

Why is the Bat-mobile
Never stuck in traffic
Why is Lois Lane
Such a pest?

Why does Supergirl
Bare her midriff
And Power girl have
A window on her chest?

How did Superman killed
By Doomsday
And Batman broken
By Bane

And Jason Todd
Clobbered by a crowbar
Re-enter the
Mortal plane?

Never fight a man
Who has a bigger stick
Or a guy in a cape
And mask

It may not be right
To question the Gods
But its funny
That you should ask

The Smitten Octopus's Lament

2010-11-10T08:08:00.000-08:00

Here I am

An octopus

Stranded on the shore

Cradling my weary head

In five tentacles

Or more

Lying on

The grainy sand

Upon a sunny beach

Eyeing the pretty

Jellyfish

Just barely out of reach

But the jellyfish

She looks away

Onto her friend she grabs

Who waggles a claw

Most menacingly

As befits a jealous crab

Together they both

Swim away

And all that's left is me

And I wonder if

I should stay on shore

Or drift away to sea

Oh woe is

My lonely heart

I heave a lonesome sigh

The ocean's bed

Will never see

The little octopii

Well the sand's too hot

For an octopus

And the sea too bloody cold

For an octopus

With eight empty arms

And nothing left to hold

Going Home

2010-11-03T10:38:00.000-07:00

The old bakery

Hot biscuits in glass jars

There I am

A drooling child of three

The nip of winter

Boiled eggs by the roadside

In the front of a scooter

Its windy

I sit my legs dangling

On the edge of the bus seat

Shiny black boots

My best friend next to me

There's a cartoon sticker

On the label of my bottle

A cat and a mouse

Called Tom & Jerry

Four empty packs of noodles

Gets you a box of colours

Summer is lemon squash

In a glass freezingly

On my grandma's fridge

There's a magnetic sticker

Even on my toes

Its just out of my reach

My daddy's got a ring

It has fake diamonds

There's a man who whips himself

Mercilessly

Between the pages of a magazine

There are circus tickets

The nose of the clown

Is like a cherry

I grasp onto dad's hair

As he puts me

On his shoulders

I hope that he never

Abandons me

As we stride on homewards

Through the vegetable market

Where the dimmest lightbulb

Glows magically

Distractions

2010-10-23T10:04:00.000-07:00

Summer is gone

They collected

A heap of leaves

From the ground

I saw Desperation

Oozing like smog

From a leaky pipe

With a whistling sound

Radio poured out

The whiny woman

with her whiskey voice

Ten hours of static

And commercials

But they're too polite

To call it noise

Someone forgot

A folded newspaper

On the seat of a bus

Oh and your friend

Called you & me for dinner

There's cold pizza

They kept it for us

Bring on the fireflies

2010-09-24T10:00:00.001-07:00

Most nights

I sit here waiting

By my silent phone

Expecting it

To buzz or hiss

To grunt or sigh

Or moan

The shadow lines

They darken 'neath

My tired and gloomy eyes

The race is done

The night is young

Bring on the fireflies

Go buy some peace

In a bag of books

In a pillow

Deep and soft

A stranger soon

Will cross your path

You can hold that

Torch aloft

And when you fall

Make sure you keep

Both feet on

The chequered ground

Harbour that pain

But then again

You can't lose

What you haven't found

Forever Forty

2010-09-15T11:39:00.000-07:00

Many years have passed
Since you have died
And some would say
You died before
All the drugs & booze
Dried up your mind
And writing a song
Became a bore

He gunned you down
Before you knew
You were a saint
And a martyr too
A shining star
In the tarnished wall
Of Rock & Roll
And Blues

Its just as well
You are not around
Reunited with your
Aged band
To make a final bow

When you fell down
They gave you a star
On the cobbled walk of fame
And your greatest hits
Went platinum
And hallowed was your name

Many years have passed
Since you left your wife
For that other chick
Who thought she could sing
And she made a pile
From the auctioneers
Who bought your underwear
And your broken strings

Its unlikely if you were
Still around
They’d be making such a fuss
Or wondering if you left the building
Or were riding on a bus

But fear ye not
We love you still
Though singers come
And singers go
Somewhere in the backroom
Of our addled minds
Its forever 1964.

Thursday

2010-08-21T23:01:00.000-07:00

Jar Jar Binks was a paratrooper. You may not think it judging from his skin but yes he was. Silent Bill was anything but. I can still hear him pounding away on his Blackberry late into the night. Seven and a half. Seven and three quarters. Eight.
A light latte with cream on the side. No sugar if not brown. A switchback ride to interior Alaska. The spook meets Nanook. Hands him an old dish towel and claims its an Award from the Fiduciary Trust for Headless Archers Who Didn't Know Better. How the days fly. From May to March. Sitting by the window. Rollin the venetian blinds up. Rolling em down again. No room for strangers here. Just Old Friends cozy and snug and thick as yesterday's silence. The stormtroopers made a mess on the carpet. Said it was a parade. Said there was no charge. And that the shards of broken glass on the living room floor were not a candle to my shattered psyche. They weren't dewdrops either. Just broken dreams in brown paper.

Tuesday

2010-08-21T05:19:00.000-07:00

Crybaby bugsy malone alone in a carriage off 43rd avenue lighting a cigar and wiping a rimless glass with a leather glove. old man mozarella baking a pizza pie hurrying by rattling an old umbrella. moleskin catskin and jammed to the brim elevators. an army of solitary men and their searching eyes. big bright linotype on pages of the daily tabloid. a fish tycoon who died and was embalmed in castor oil. no rosy pictures. just an office siren pitched to drive your tears to sorrow. an old bottle smashed on the curb. plain dumb luck disguised as a doormat. too stout to be troubled. blow your whistle you paranoid policeman. make the unruly elements scatter. make their teeth chatter.

Leftovers

2010-08-18T11:09:00.001-07:00

This is my kitchen

Step right in

This is an interview

My kingdom for a leg of lamb

My left eye

For some fishy stew

I could make leaftlets

Out of take-away menus

And advertise my plight

I could rave and rant

But I just can't

Eat out every night

I'm trapped in a land

Where they eat no meat

And even frown at eggs

Where beans are keen

And red is green

And chickens have no legs

Here they fry and fry

Everything in oil

Right till its crispy brown

They chop some spores

And fry some more

Then hang 'em upside down

I could open

A pizza box collection

A fine selection no doubt

I could design a decor

Out of cans of Knorr

So I'm through with eating out

My maid said

Why don't you marry?

Then the lady who will be

Your wife will brew

And bring you too

Your daily cup of tea

So I went and bought

Myself a ladle

And a stove and a chimney too

If meat I lust

Then cook I must

Here endeth the interview

Nothing as Bad

2010-07-31T12:44:00.000-07:00

There's nothing as bad

As soggy fries

Five day old laundry

Hung out to dry

A brand new phone

That doesn't ring

People who talk

When somebody sings

A bottle of syrup

Coloured pink

A heap of used dishes

In the kitchen sink

Wrapping paper

With no gift inside

Muddy footprints

On the playground slide

A bill for a meal

Someone else had

"How you disappoint me"

As delivered by Dad

Homework not done

Notebook not signed

Taxes not paid

A friend who's resigned

An empty mailbox

A lunchbox full of beans

A racy movie

With censored scenes

A rusty harmonica

A stringless guitar

A room with no windows

A sky with no stars

Old Love

2010-03-10T09:46:00.001-08:00

Old love
A rusty hook
Preserved so well
Inside a book
Hairpin curves
Harmless fun
Roving eyes
Someone

Passed me by
I took her in
Beneath the glimpses
Below the chin
A turning point
An edgy smile
Same old lines
Behind

The curtain waves
In silhouette
A shady dancer
Pirouettes
The perfect stranger
Makes a bow
The hero escapes
Somehow

The perfect match
In heaven made
The locksmith bolts
His number plates
The silent samurai
Sword in hand
Smashes the hourglass
And then the sand

Gleaming stadium
Deafening sound
Old Stapleton and
His fluorescent hound
Comes bounding over
The foggy moors
The game is over
The crowd roars

The moth

2009-12-21T12:05:00.000-08:00

The moth
Swings past my door
Tonight
Hasn’t she heard
I haven’t slept
A wink?
A ray of sunshine
She’s looking for
But that’s not who I am
I think

But its not me
She’s come to meet
Its my bedside lamp
She’s interested in
The bottom of whose
Bowl is curved
And now shelters
Some members of her kin

Buzz along
You fickle moth
Like so many moths
Who have come and gone
Some have departed
And some have returned
Like the echoing notes
Of a farewell song

But you are Persistent
Are you not
Not scared of the pinch
Or of being caught?
A fool of sorts
Irrational almost
Bumbling blindly
In your relentless flight
Abandoned by sanity
And impaled by light

What a beautiful day

2009-12-21T11:14:00.000-08:00

What a beautiful day

that was

I remember

How the sun felt warm

And the air was as crisp

As a freshly minted bill

I remember

How the water danced

A number strange and wavering

And the puppets

On the bank nodded

Their wooden heads

Unheeding

Separated

The skylark sang

An ancient tune

And the sand felt warm

Under the soles of our feet

In the evenings we would part

But in the mornings

We would meet

What a beautiful day

that was

Your eyes were green and watery

You hands as cool

As the dewdrops on the freshly mown

Blades of grass

Your voice

Shimmering

Like a string of pearls

Dislodged from the sea bed

Of eternity

What a beautiful day

And although you may

Not remember

I remember

That distant roar

The ebb and the swell

I remember that day

And I remember you

Very well

Evening unaware

2009-12-02T04:33:00.000-08:00

I don't know why but I always feel sad, come evening. Maybe it’s the diminishing light, or the thought of one more day almost over, that brings about such melancholy. Or maybe it’s some mysterious planetary ebb and flow thing. Whatever be the reason, as the shadows lengthen, so do the lines on my face.

I remember one afternoon more than a decade ago. I had set out on an aimless walk down a road I liked. It was late afternoon when I started, around 4. The sun was still up and shimmering on the trees on either side of the path. The orange bricks on the adjoining walls looked fiery. As I moved on looking neither left nor right but straight ahead into infinity, my thoughts seem to spiral inward with a manic frenzy. And images were born out of the slanted light that stroked my face. My eyelids were the slit of the Invisible Projector. The sound of blood coursing through my ears was its unobtrusive hum. My mind, the endless empty screen, on which images danced and changed & paid no heed to the constraints of reality. My feet moved fast to keep in time with my kaleidoscopic visions. My voice hummed a song never heard. On and on I walked. Without a destination. Without knowing why.

And then as suddenly as it had awakened, the song died inside me. The images froze, shattered and disintegrated like dust. My feet stopped moving. And I was just a lonely man without purpose in a bustling world. Of traffic signs & squawking car horns & smoke & irate passersby. Deflated, I turned around slowly, back towards where I'd started from.

Abject terror hit me. The sun had gone leaving long shadows. The street lamps were quivering but unlit. And in this midsummer air, suspended between day and night, floated the ghosts of untold stories, unnamed longings & unanswered prayers. They circled around me, an easy prey. And I dragged my leaden feet homeward, first slowly, one at a time, and then breaking into a senseless, hopeless run.

The candle

2009-12-01T01:03:00.000-08:00

The candle lit

Upon the shelf

It flickers, it blinks

Then burns itself

And casting forth

Its dying light

It reaches out

Into the night

A second flame

Is soon reborn

Will it survive

The gust of scorn

The winds of mirth

And live to tell

Another story and

Cast another spell?

Why

2009-08-12T09:14:00.000-07:00

Do trains go through tunnels?

Are teeth really white?

Do birds close their eyes

When they sleep at night?

Does fire really burn?

Do clocks really chime?

Where does all the snow go

When its summertime?

Do aeroplanes flap their wings?

Do ripples live in pools?

Do bees have honey

Before they go to school?

When I wake up

Will you still be there?

Or a different daddy wait for me?

Will you still love me

When I'm ninety three?

Cappuccino heart

2009-08-06T11:49:00.000-07:00

The machine wheezed and coughed like a pair of lungs on a prayer. It groaned and gurgled and spat white bubbles of foaming milk. Its tubes were clogged & opaque like a nose outside a glass window on a foggy day. Its head was bowed down with a goldfish bowl filled with coffee beans.

Down below on the glass counter, there sat the survivors of a once happy family. A sandwich that had seen better days. A doughnut down on his luck. And a can of pineapple juice with a label in Arabic & an expiry stamp dating back to the turn of the century.

Rounding off the party were the frivolous sachets of powdered sugar. Brooding mustard and ketchup. And an assortment of plastic straws rolling with silent laughter.

The air was thick with the smell of sugar. The air was abuzz with the wings of the flies.

"One cappuccino small & black", I ordered. "No milk. No sugar"
"Anything else?", said the man behind the counter.
"A sandwich? Soft drink?"
I shook my head & held out Exact Change.

The man pressed a button. The machine sprang into life. The drooping sandwich straightened up. The doughnut cracked a smile. The coffee grinder churned out a patriotic hum. And the flies stopped buzzing around & stood in rapt attention.

Roasted corn

2009-07-31T00:22:00.000-07:00

Take a single stalk of your average corn. Tug on the ears and peel them off. Stack them neatly on the kitchen counter. Light the gas. Lower the flame. Then grab the corn by the stalk & hold it over the fire. Turn gently. First clockwise. Then the other way. Slide the corn back and forth over the flame. Listen to the crackle and the pops. Smell the slowly roasting corn. Look at the darkening pods turning first golden brown and then slowly to black. Rotate the stalk carefully till its all evenly brown and smells like heaven. Now the best part. Shake some black salt onto the plate. Slice half a lime. Half squeeze the lime & then coat it all over with the salt. Then rub it all over the corn squeezing gently and letting the salty juice seep into the corn evenly. Keep the juiced-up corn on the plate. Throw away the ears into the dustbin. Shut the lid. Pick up the corn from the plate. Count to five. Close your eyes. And bite in. Attack the middle and work your way to the other sides. Or start at the top and save the middle for the last. When you’ve eaten most of the corn, look carefully for the random pods hiding in plain sight. Be merciless. Spare no one. When the massacre is complete, heave a regretful sigh. Throw away the barren stalk. Lick your fingers.

Trifles

2009-07-29T10:28:00.000-07:00

The little odd things
She left for you
The picture postcards
With its ancient glue
An old door stop
A single shoe

Some August evening
The sun going down
The sickle moon
The baying hound
Tacky slippers
An old dressing gown

A deserted phone booth
Late at night
A handful of change
A fistful of light
Some random phrase
That passion ignites

An unanswered question
An unspoken word
A leaf without a tree
A wing without a bird
A hidden clue
For a riddle absurd

A glowing dial
That shines in the dark
An arrow that’s shot
But misses the mark
A rendezvous
In the deserted car park

A late supper
An early dance
A forward step
A backward glance
A fight that is lost
A second chance

Serenade for the infirm

2009-07-17T11:03:00.000-07:00

Perhaps it'll be easier

If you closed your eyes

The pain is momentary

So just try and smile

No reason to worry now

No reason to fear

Just hope you have mediclaim

Cause the doctor is here

Is it your arteries?

Is it your heart?

You've driven too many miles

Your engine won't start

No reason to worry now

No reason to fear

Just fill up your fountain pen

Cause the doctor is here

The doctor is here

He's loaded with pills

He has a formula

If you have the bills

We'll pump you with insulin

We'll clean out your lungs

We'll dissect your anatomy

Refurbish your tongue

No reason to worry now

No reason to fear

Just hang on a moment there

Cause the doctor is here

The doctor is here

He's loaded with pills

He has a formula

If you have the bills

No time to say goodbye

To your near and dear

They're huddled around you now

And shedding their tears

They're eyeing your property

And your antique phone

Just yell for the doctor now

Cause the old man is gone.

The deluge

2009-07-15T08:03:00.000-07:00

One eyed cyclops lady polythene bag over one eye walks down the water logged street lined with colonial bungalows. Motor man stalled in the middle curses but his voice is drowned by thunder. Coconut boy juggles his coconuts with lunatic frenzy. One lands in the gutter with a prominent splash. The edges of the open drains are lined with little brown rats scurrying for their lives. The pan Walla mixes his concoction with an added gusto. His customers munch with pleasure. The trickle of pan juice running down their faces is smeared by the rain water bouncing off the asbestos. They pull out their linen handkerchiefs once smartly ironed but now orange and limp. The street lamps start a blinking now you see me now you don’t contest. And right in the middle of the busy junction a baby stares at the muddy water and says “guh goo gaah”. His reflection answers in bubbles.

Sunday in Yus Towers

2009-07-04T19:50:00.000-07:00

Its quarter to eight AM on a sunday and I'm wide awake. I've been chasing away induben for the last two days repeatedly just to get a few more hours of sleep. But today she was determined & nearly brought the door down with her banging and insistent bell-ringing. Then she ploughed through her chores systematically, offered the latest free gossip (in Gujarati) from the neighbours' & the advantages of plastic jaalis to keep away kabootars before vanishing in a blaze of speed-lines.

So I'm awake. And I can't go back to sleep simply because of the large number of books and dvds piled up on the bed. (I could of course put them back down in their previous resting place, the floor. Or better still, in the cupboard where they actually belong.) Plus there's breakfast to be made, groceries to be bought, clothes to be washed , ceiling fans to be repaired and several other mundane chores. On the lesser mundane front, there's a new guitar piece that I've been wanting to learn and the storyboard for my short film, which I haven't touched ever since the semester opened at NID.

I feel better already having just written out the long list of thingstobedone. Now I must make a priority list, one that arranges the above items in a critical order.

Sunday stretches like a long drawn-out yawn. The skies look cloudless, heartless & relentlessly clear. Some kabootars just invaded the living room. I run out broom in hand uttering blood curdling war-cries.

Ants aren’t gentlemen

2009-06-17T07:11:00.000-07:00

A lizard had died and the ants were carting him away. Pale yellow, green and slightly transparent in spots, they pulled and pushed his corpse up the stairs and towards the banquet hall. While his mate, stared beady eyed at this ghoulish procession from the safety of the ceiling.

Call it just desserts. Or strength in numbers. Or ants just wanna chew.

The pale green tail flicked weakly a couple of times, as the ants finished climbing the first step. From under the broken flower pots with the dried cactus that were lining the stairs, out came a fresh new battalion of ants. Relieving the fatigued and offering them pep talk and much console.

A few minutes’ break and then they were back in action. Nine more steps to go.

“Heave ho”. “Heave hooo” . Plop.

Suddenly there was pandemonium. The bottom half of the lizard’s tail had fallen off and now rested at the bottom of the stairs. The ants were quick to respond. A dozen of the youngest ants were sent to retrieve the fallen limb. This they dealt with rapidly and were in line with the rest of the troops in no time at all.

This new turn of events didn’t escape the leader’s eye. He called an impromptu conference of his top lieutenants. They got into a huddle that resembled an eye from the top. The decision was made fast. And swiftly the troops were dispatched with a new brief.

The tail-less lizard lay sprawled on the step, looking much worse for the wear. Tiny black ants surrounded him and moved in closer. More and more, they came from every crack, every crevice and every miniscule hole in the wall. Soon they were all around him as thick as a bold black outline from a felt pen marker. At a common signal, they opened their jaws and sunk their incisors into the soft reptilian flesh.

The operation was swift. And soon, small battalions were carrying up various limbs of the lizard in unwavering single file formations. The general led the front, with the severed head of the lizard following shortly behind.

Blink

I could have imagined this, but at this point, I distinctly saw the lizard look up and wink at me. The prospect of being ant chow was no doubt, quite amusing.

The Reluctant Father

2009-06-12T00:44:00.000-07:00

“Daddy daddy daddy”, came the heart rending cry and hit me in the small of the back. I was late for work and had just stepped out of the lift in my building. Groggy-eyed and disoriented from the lack of sleep. I ignored the cry and walked forward towards the auto rickshaws that wait outside my building.

“Dadddyyy daddyyy”, the voice was following me and was accompanied by the patter of little feet. I was reminded of the fairy tale in which the runaway captive is advised to keep looking forward and run and ignore any stray voices that might lure him to his doom. I took bigger strides towards the gate. The little feet were scampering now and howling plaintively. “Daddeeee, daddeee!!!”
I stopped in my tracks. And so did the howling and the footsteps. I took a deep breath and put one foot forward. “DADDYYYYYY!!!”

Finally, I'd had enough of disembodied voices of children. I put on a stern look. And turned around.

A boy of around 3 in red dungarees and a blue cap was crying and running towards me. His face was smeared with tears and his shoes squeaked. As he saw me(in a maroon t-shirt and a white cap) he froze and stopped his crying. A second or two passed as we gawked at each other.

“Mummeeeeeeeeeee”, the boy howled and ran for his life, this time in the opposite direction, inside the building. Soon the sound of his crying died out. I heaved a sigh of relief and resumed my quest for the auto.

Somehow I wasn't ready for fatherhood yet.

Henpecked Harry

2009-06-02T00:28:00.000-07:00

"ONIONS!!!! We're out of onions!!!"

"Yes dear"

"And add another kilo of washing powder to your list"

"Yes dear"

"Have you taken the shopping bag? I hate plastic!"

"Yes dear"

"And don't get back dirty notes"

"Yes dear"

"And don't say 'yes dear' after everything I say!"

"Yes de...I mean yes certainly"

"Now off you go & don't dilly dally with those useless friends of yours in the market. I have to prepare little Anoushka for school. I've been up since five am while you were snoring soundly. My God you sound like a herd of elephants. I don't know why or how I've put up with you for so long. On duty 24x7. I break my back to keep this house running but does this man care? Is there any gratitude? Oh no. OH NOO. My poor dear mother was right..."

Harry bolted discreetly at this point. Any mention of his dearly departed mother-in-law was a sure-fire portent of doom. Things could only get worse from there on. So he slung his bio-degradable shopping bag on his arm and hurried towards the local supermarket. He felt his forehead. It was damp with sweat. He brushed his hair greying prematurely, back over his forehead.

"When did this happen?" he thought to himself. When did that sweet shy girl he knew and courted in college, turn into this dish-smashing, fire-breathing, domineering tyrant? When did the sweet intimacy change into the dull and dry routines of domesticity?

"What was it that I've done wrong?" he thought. "I work hard too, you know. I may not bring home too much money but why blame me. It's the economy. And it’s no good pointing out the neighbours to me. And their lavish parties and their multiple cars and multiple apartments while I'm working myself to a bone trying to pay our mortgage."

He started crossing the road to reach the Supermarket on the other side

"Gratitude, she tells me. How about gratitude for what I've to go through. I could earn much more you know. If I'd take gifts and bribes like some people. But I have principles you know. Isn't that worth something? And what if I got caught?"

All these and a thousand unspoken thoughts cluttered Harry's mind as he wheeled the cart in an unusually deserted supermarket. Mechanically he picked up items, put them in the cart and checked them off the list.

Before he did that he carefully checked each item for its brand, quantity and expiry date against the ones in the List. Any deviations from the List could lead to Major Turbulence. Better safe than sorry thought Harry as he nodded to himself. And bashed directly into a cart approaching from the other end of the aisle.

There was a loud feminine scream. And a horrible clatter as bottles, boxes and packets crashed to the floor. His cart tipped over and lay squirming like an overturned cockroach. Mumbling apologies Harry picked himself up and rushed hurriedly to pick up the fallen goods for the person in front.

A woman! And no ordinary woman but Ms Shapely from the house across. Harry had always seen her from across the fence and wanted to make neighbourly advances. But had always chickened out. And here she came now storming towards him. What a way to meet! Harry shut his eyes. And braced himself for the blast.

“Oh Harry are you all right?” said a cooing voice.

And a soft hand started brushing his clothes with great concern. Harry gulped and gawked.

“You...you know my name?” he stuttered.

Silvery laughter.

“Of course, I'm your neighbour. Little Anoushka often drops by at my place on her way from school. And Harriet and I are partners in bridge!”

“I'm...I'm so sorry. I'm really clumsy. Harriet always says...”

“Oh nonsense. It's my fault really. I was thinking of my minced chicken recipe. I always go into a trance when I'm devising recipes you know. So it’s really my fault for not looking ahead.”

Harry was stunned and silenced

“Oh you poor man”, said Ms Shapely leaning over Harry & straightening his collar.

“She wears really nice perfume” Harry thought inhaling involuntarily.
He felt dizzy. He shut his eyes.

“I know!” shrieked Ms Shapely. Harry's eyes snapped open.

“Let me give you a ride back home. You just load your things in the boot of my car and off we'll go. And when we reach, you must come in for a nice cup of ginseng tea. Isn’t that a lovely idea?”

“Um I don’t kn..”

“Come come Harry. It the least I can do. Be neighbourly. Won’t you?”
Ms Shapely said leaning forward and batting her curled eyelashes at about 18 flutters per second.

“That's settled then.”
She grabbed his hand. Harry froze and forgot what it was he was about to say as Ms Shapely led him by hand towards the billing counter. He was sweating inside the air-conditioned store. His palms were damp. And he was pretty certain that the loud thumping of his heart could be heard over the piped elevator music and the squeaks of his shopping cart.

He got out of the store and into her car. She turned the key in the ignition. The car started noiselessly. The world was music. The world was pink fluffy clouds. The world was a purring windshield wiper. And the warm feel of her hand every time it brushed him when she changed gears. The soft cooing sounds she made every time she spoke. Harry wanted this ride to never end. He leaned back against the plush recliner seat of Ms Shapely's car while she kept on a steady stream of melodious and inconsequential chatter.

“HARRY PLIMS!!! You good for nothing philandering man. It is as I suspected all along.”

Harry jumped out from his reveries and hit his head on the car ceiling. The car had come to a standstill somewhere in between his house and Ms Shapely's. The reason was Harriet blocking the way. She had just dropped their daughter Anoushka at the bus stop and was crossing the street at the precise moment Ms Shapely's car had slowed down at the curb.

“Get out of there you two faced two timing twister. Get out now. GET OUT I SAY!!”

“Please Harriet, you mustn't misunderstand”, cooed Ms Shapely stepping out off the car one shapely leg at a time.

SLAP.
Went Harriet's palm in a lightning move. And a staggering & howling red-faced Ms Shapely dashed into her house.

Harry cowered under his seat.

“COME OUT OF THERE YOU COWARD!!”
Harriet banged her fists against the windows. Harry out of some latent instinct of self preservation had managed to press the auto-lock button before he'd ducked under the seat.
BANG BANG.
The glass shook and trembled but was resilient enough to withstand Harriet's flurry of blows. Harry thanked his guardian angel and General motors.

A largish crowd had gathered around the car as Harriet paced and circled it demoniacally. One man (the local doctor) who had dared to intervene had been tossed across the street into the ditch head first. Now people just stood and watched without coming close to Harriet or trying to interfere in any manner.

Harry by now had made himself comfortable under the car seat. The grocery bag had split open and a few bars of chocolates had fallen out. Reaching out Harry switched on the 5.1 car stereo and turned the volume way up. He started munching on the nutri-bar as Natasha Bedingfield started belting out A pocketful of sunshine.

A soothing sense of peace came over him. He could now neither see nor hear Harriet's howling. Or the sound of the approaching ambulance called by Ms Shapely who had spotted the prostrate form of Harriet on the street, felled like a giant tree by a heart attack.

Run rabbit run

2009-05-28T22:15:00.000-07:00

Here she comes. Like a mad cactus out of hell. Shedding hairpins at every bend. Bobbing on a broomstick. And there you are. Frozen in your tracks. Like the dim-witted four-legged farm animal with long ears and a fluffy tail everyone knows you to be. Where’s all your chutzpah now? Where’s all that casual munching on a carrot? All that what’s up doc-ing?

You’re trapped in the witch's house. There's a stew brewing in that awful cauldron. Right underneath the mantelpiece with the bottles of desiccated lizard legs and the shrunken heads. There's rotten squid in it. And fresh caterpillar juice. Legs of spider and wings of bat. Add salt to taste. And of course, one fresh grey rabbit.

She's honing down on you now. You still haven't budged. She's cackling hysterically and rubbing her scaly green hands together. You are contemplating the ceiling. She lunges and reaches out. But all she gets is air. And while the air grows thick in her curses, scattered hairpins and multicoloured smoke clouds, you are carried down below to safety in the escalator with a collapsible trapdoor entrance.

The witch screams. The rabbit runs. And the equilibrium in the cartoon universe is restored. The only thing left incomplete is the darn rabbit stew.

Cleaning the balcony

2009-04-22T09:14:00.000-07:00

Induben's four year old son, Parth, spotted the teddy bear at the bottom of the drawing room cupboard. Although it was 43 degrees and rising, the bear wore a muffler. As he watched, the cupboard door opened mysteriously. And the teddy bear toppled over.

The other occupants in the room were an aluminium clothes horse with metal hangers. A shoe rack with two slippers & a pair of adidas running shoes. A chest of drawers with a heap of unwashed clothes. A small cane stool with a green cushion on top. And a red rug with a black border all around it.

Parth picked up the teddy bear. Pushed the clothes horse. Then pulled the cane stool on top of the rug. Threw the teddy bear in the air. Rolled head over heels on the rug & landed feet first. And caught the bear all in one movement.

The hangers on the clothes horse clapped.

Meanwhile on the balcony, Induben cleaned several months' accumulation of pigeon droppings. It smelt like molten sulphur, all that pigeon crap. The shola jhadu went swish swish, with a clinical precision. And a huge splash of water took all the muck down the pipe in a whirlpool of sound.

Something new

2009-04-04T07:25:00.000-07:00

It may be something new

That you have noticed

While you trolled

This lonesome town

Maybe a trick of the eye

A sleight of hand

Or a mystery

Waiting to be found

It may be a lifetime of denial

Or surrender to an impulse

That gripped your mind

It may be something

You'd been holding onto

But finally chose

To leave behind

A Very Cold Place To Be

2008-12-15T06:17:00.000-08:00

The rain splattered
On my window
The wind blew
Rattlingly
I was alone and it was
A very cold place to be

The birds flew off north
And the dogs bayed
Howlingly
I was alone and it was
A very cold place to be

Some people build a home
Some people let it slide
It seems I built a wall
Which had me trapped inside

A radio played a tune
A pleasant melody
Though I could hear them playing
Nobody could hear me

The shadows on the ledge
Lengthened menacingly
I was alone and it was
A very cold place to be

Some people lose someone
Some find out at a cost
I'm glad that i found you
Before I was completely lost

Four blank walls staring
And a ceiling speaks to me
I was alone and it was
A very cold place to be

I can't remember your face

2008-12-12T11:54:00.000-08:00

Who are you?
Have I seen you before?
Are you a stranger
Or someone I know?

What is this place?
Have we come here before?
Was it a home or a hideaway
That only we'd know?

I forget many things
As the years take their toll
The cobwebs grow thicker
And the memories grow old

I know that once
You were precious to me
I counted the hours
Before I could be

Together with you
But now there's no trace
I don't know who you are
I can't remember your face

Is this your photo?
Is that really your child?
Did my heart skip a beat
Every time that you smiled?

Was the reason you left
Just the reason I stayed?
I have no desire
That the past be replayed

I forget many things
As the years take their toll
The cobwebs grow thicker
And the memories grow old

I know that once
You were precious to me
I counted the hours
Before I could be

Together with you
But now there's no trace
I don't know who you are
I can't remember your face

Forever for you

2008-11-29T09:20:00.000-08:00

The city fell silent
When the night grew cold
And all over the sky
Was overcast
The smoke it rose
Like an evil cloud
And claimed the hearts
We thought would last

The roads were empty
The minds were numb
And fearful of
What the night would hold
We held ourselves
Throughout the night
While a single thought
Did now unfold

I may not be here
Much longer
So I guess this is
A good time to say
It was a pleasure
Knowing you
And you know I'll always
Feel that way

I may not be here
Much longer
So take this as
My last goodbye
I always complained
That I felt grounded
With you I know
I'd touched the sky

The stone felt hot
As the roof fell down
We tried to hide
But were hunted down
The fire blazed
The mansion razed
And our path to reason
Could not be found

And many of us
Were passing through
Merely intent
To end our day
With the ones we love
Who now sleep alone
Tomorrow will always
Be far away

I may not be here
Much longer
So I guess this is
A good time to say
It was a pleasure
Knowing you
And you know I'll always
Feel that way

I may not be here
Much longer
So I hope my voice
Is reaching you
Though I may fall silent
And my light may dim
My song will remain
Forever for you

A rodent's tale

2008-11-09T07:53:00.000-08:00

This year has been a low write year. A lot has happened but i've been too busy living those moments to write about it. Most importantly, the rat race rut that i've been stuck in and resisting and fighting for the last decade or so. It seems that i may have just, found my way out of it.

Just watched Modern Times again, last month. My heart warmed at the scene where Chaplin juxtaposes the shot of a flock of sheep with a shot of the factory workers filing in. And that scene when he goes mad & is pursued by a cop but can't help but punch in his time card. Brilliant, sarcastic and relevant, more now than ever.

My Factory Days: maybe that can be the title of a book that i 'll write someday.

So this is where I am right now. Poised (i think) on the brink of something. A rebellious lab rat in a tattered hospital gown. Gnawing his way out of the rotting experimental facility. Little paws riddled with needle marks and scars. Battered but still defiant. More jerry than stuart little.

Time for the world to jump on a raised stool, lift its skirts and belt out a high-pitched squeal.

The Reluctant Inanimates

2008-09-09T05:01:00.000-07:00

A pitcher of lemon water
Sits perched upon my table
It neither talks
Nor whistles
Nor sings
Nor it would
If it was able

Crumbs of crusted
Chicken fry
Float at the bottom
Of the shallow pan
I dont think they'd touch
The 100 meter mark
Even if they ran

There's a cowbell
Suspended on a wire
Not much disposed to chime
I call them
The Reluctant Inanimates
The bell, the chicken & the lime.

Music from a room

2008-08-06T02:06:00.000-07:00

Its not easy to describe.
Each time the image becomes slightly hazier.
And the sound, more muted.
But if I were to cast my mind back, as far back as I could take it,
I would see a room.

A white room. With tall windows. At 4.30 in the afternoon.
A shaft of slanted light on an old upright. A messy pile of books on the side.
An African mask with long earlobes. Smiling without a smile.
And a girl in a red jacket on the piano stool.
Frowning at the keys.

Her face is obscured by her hair. The sunlight forms a halo around it.
Her hands are searching for the notes. Her fingers are delicate but strong.
And I can hear them playing as if from another room.
Each note found is like the clue to a larger puzzle.
And each musical phrase is like a trail of breadcrumbs.

As I listen, larger patterns obscure the opening notes. The music swells in volume. And confidence. But never loses a sweetness that is hard to define. And difficult to hum along with.
A drop of water inside a wooden bucket. A thousand bees in a garden drunk on summer.

She plays and I follow that sound. Along the carpet crisscrossed like a wiry maze. Over the sideboard with a tray of freshly cut green apples. Twisting and turning. Leaping and falling. Falling and rising. Pausing for breath. And then breaking loose. With the urgency of a downpour on a tin roof.

I've heard her before I have seen her. I've seen her before I have known her. And I've known her as a fragment of music that haunts me and eludes me to this day.

Screen test

2008-07-31T18:35:00.000-07:00

My first job was working at a small office in a basement. I had a desk to myself. And a desktop computer. "What am I supposed do with it?", was my first question. Not because I didn't know what computers were. Or used for. But because I just didn't know, what is it that I, could be possibly doing on one. I mean, I loved to draw. And I wrote. Occasionally. I usually had a clipboard handy on me. With a fat bunch of plain unruled A4 sheets. So the question, when it came from me, was not so much as naive, as uncomprehending.

"You fill time-sheets", came the answer. "And answer emails."

"But can't I do it from someone else's desk? I mean there are so many other machines around.
And this fellow here does take up a lot of space? I usually like my desktop clean and sparse. It helps me think."

But answer there came none.

So I was stuck with a fifteen inch eyesore with an anti-glare mask. An ancient email application called Pegasus. And lots of little blobs on the screen which were also known as shortcuts. It was quite fun actually. Something always happened when you clicked on one of those guys.

So I fiddled around. And amused myself till the novelty of the situation wore off. And then I did what any sensible person would have done. I shut it down. Moved the monitor from the middle of the desk to the side. Stretched my elbows. Turned a fresh new leaf on my clipboard. And started doodling spacemen.

Soon a shadow fell on my page. My supervisor (in a long line of supervisors to come) breathing down my neck. Literally. So I stopped drawing spacemen and swiveled around and raised my eyebrows enquiringly. Old Glass eyed Petushka didn't blink. But glared. And pointed at the Boss' cabin. Where a neat little huddle was forming even as she glared and I was being glared at.

"Why aren't you there?"

"Do I have to be?"

"Yes. Everyone on Project MagEd has to be"

"Am I on project MagEd?"

"Didn't you get my email?"

"No. I mean, I don't know."

"You don't know? How couldn't you? Didn't you see the blinking icon of the little winged horse on the bottom right corner of your screen. That happens every time you get a new email!"

"Um, I was getting a bit of a headache. Staring at the box, I mean. So I switched it off."

"You switched off your monitor?? But you'd still hear the sound notification?? There's a little gong that goes off every time you get a new mail or memo. And it escalates in volume till you attend to it. There's no way you could have missed that!"

"No. Um, what I meant was that I pulled the plug. I mean, I switched off the machine."

I don't know what her reply would have been. I couldn't hear it cause she didn't say it. And anyway, I was soon rushed into a glass cubicle where I met other members of Project Mag Ed.
I tried to follow what was being said. And contribute. I really did. But it dragged on and I soon lost interest. I started doodling. And consciously avoiding looking at glass-eyed Petushka. Whose meaningful look seemed to imply, that I was surely, in for it.

Smellbound

2008-07-09T22:13:00.000-07:00

There's a smell
That the counters at the banks smell
There's a story
That the earthy smell of mud tells
The smell of dust
Now mingles with
The smell of inkwells

Its the smell of
Decay and dereliction
Partly vague
And vaguely true
And partly fiction
Step careful on
These scattered shards of memory
They might crumble
With the unexpected friction

Railway tracks
And leather chairs
Along the airway
Slippery banisters & tiles
Along the stairway
These smells still linger
Cheat and lure you
Their way

Its the smell of
Decay and dereliction
Partly vague
And vaguely true
And partly fiction
Step careful on
These scattered shards of memory
They might crumble
With the unexpected friction

Ode to a fish

2008-02-11T22:47:00.000-08:00

The fishes come out
To speak to me
From their coral encrusted
Economy

And I rise to the occasion
Light as a bird
When I open my mouth
There are bubbles for words

To me they are food
To them I'm a geek
Ungainly, two-legged
And fin-less freak

They hold up their fins
And pray for my soul
This stranger residing
In a goldfish bowl

And when they are done
They swim away in line
Returning to their world
And I to mine

The Ice Battle

2008-02-03T10:57:00.000-08:00

Two swords lay buried in a pile of ice cubes. Their hilts of burnished gold and their blades of silver steel. The little girl-woman in a golden armour walked purposefully towards them. While her hulking adversary waited. Wheezy breath and drooling at the mouth.

She stooped and rested her hands on the hilt of the first (and smaller) sword. And with some effort, she pulled it out. A mild crack punctuated the still air. Little slivers of ice went flying around. As she raised the sword higher, its weight felt reassuring in her hands. A gleam of light shone pink and purple and white on the tip of the blade.

Next she walked to the other (and larger sword). This one looked like it had been trapped for a longer period of time. Maybe cast aside after many battles of cascading violence. Never to be woken again. A brute of a sword. A mean sword.

With one vicious swing the girl slashed at the blade of this sword at its weakest point. There was a sound like a glacier breaking in two. As the buried sword split in two and its dislodged top hit the ground.

The sound had barely subsided as she whirled around to find the hulking giant had drawn out his own sword and was poised for combat.

They faced each other. The little girl and the Giant. The strangest of adversaries. For a full minute they stared at each other. Then, it began.

She cut the air with a swish of her blade. The Giant stared in wonder as a small cut ran diagonally across his face. From his upper right eyebrow to the corner of his drooping lip. Staggering backwards with a grunt, he raised his own sword and brought it down with a huge heave. Though the blade touched nothing but the icy air, it seemed to cut the girl in half. A red mark appeared on her forehead. And a vertical crack ran down her golden armour and all the way down to the soles of her feet. Undaunted by the pain, she balanced herself on her heels and blade in hand, whirled around in a complete arc. Her opponent's fur hide ripped its seam all around his midriff. A line of blood showed through.

Infuriated he launched a volley of blows in the air. And now the girl staggered back. As cuts appeared on her face from all directions. Her golden head-band with a red star was cleaved in two. Fine lines of blood were appearing on her face, neck and shoulders. And though she continued wielding her sword, her parries were becoming increasingly feeble. For every small cut of hers the Giant would inflict twenty. And while he was rooted to the ground as firmly as ever, she felt dizzy from the loss of blood and the sting of uncounted wounds. The sky spun in front of her. And the ground danced beneath her feet. Icy red.

At this point, a fierce wind seemed to whip across the landscape. A figure in a blue suit, red cape and boots came swooping down from the sky. And suddenly, the battle looked like it never was. The blood stains vanished. The wounds were healed. The armour reforged. The girl and the Giant stood smiling at each other genially. As blueboy muttered a few pleasantries, waved a cheery hello at both and flew off again.

A huge chunk of ice dislodged and overturned itself. A mask-less man in a grey and black suit was clawing his way out of an icy pit he'd fallen into. The girl and the giant lent him a hand. And as they stood around in an icy circle, the camera seemed to turn and pull further and further away. Till the three were no more than black dots on a white ceiling. Mine.

If I Were

2008-02-03T02:30:00.000-08:00

If I were a werewolf
All gnashing silver teeth
I'll huff and puff
Till I was blue
And you were just beneath

If I were a shotgun
All double barreled zest
I'd fill the sky
With mighty holes
And like King Kong thump my chest

If I were a writer
Nobody that you knew
I'd daily mail you
Sheets of prose
Till you published my review

Little Windows

2008-01-28T01:21:00.000-08:00

Little windows are opening
Little beams of flaky light
I've been locked up so long
I've been so busy fighting
The good old fight

Little arrows are flying
Little arrows of hope
Some bounce off my skin
And some like persistent cream
Find their way down below

In all of this world
Wherever i may go
Looking neither left nor right
Neither up nor below

Where everything is strange
When there's nothing that i know
A stranger's hands will open
A little window to my soul

Little stars are emerging
Little points of shifting light
Born so long ago
Born of exploding fire
And into an eternal night

Little beads of sweat
Little fevered shiny gems
Are scattered by a stranger
Are gathered by a farmer
And vanish like melting snow

In all of this world
Wherever i may go
Looking neither left nor right
Neither up nor below

Where everything is strange
When there's nothing that i know
A stranger's hands will open
A little window to my soul

Bhootu-time

2008-01-10T23:59:00.000-08:00

You're not sleepy. Not a wink.

Though the crawling turtle is. So is the talking book. And teddy is ready to drop.

The crayons are back in their boxes. So are the beads and the stones and the shells. And the coloured cut-out hands, the mismatched plastic blocks, the ruins of a castle and the remnants of a tea-party.

You step out of the bathroom. Yellow t shirt. White pajamas. Hair symmetrically cropped close to your skull. Freshly oiled.
"Are you naughty?" I whisper & ask you
You hold your right forefinger and thumb close to each other. Almost touching.
Meaning: A little.

All the ablutions have been completed. The large bouncy mattresses have been placed on the floor. You've jumped your jumps & clapped your claps while your mother has tucked in & straightened the sheets. You're standing on the floor now. While she puts in the finishing touches. Clutching a red pillow almost as large as you are. There's a stack of bed-time stories close by. Waiting to be read out in that bed-time voice.

Bumpy dog will lick his bone again. Hansel and Gretel will eat the gingerbread man. The will-o-the-wisp candle will be blown out. And you, nearly three years old, chocolate smear on your cheek, clutching a shiny white stone in your right fist and your mother's skirt hem in your left, will hoodwink the bhootus yet again.

Low Tide

2008-01-04T23:38:00.000-08:00

The sand is warm. I'm inside my grey sweat shirt. Hood firmly down. A cold wind is circling past my lower back. I'm holding my guitar. My head in a hood bent low over it. I'm in a cozy world of my own. I'm singing.

Its the first day of the year. I'm on a beach somewhere out of town. There are friends around me. Sitting huddled in groups of their own. Each in their own way trying to unwrap and assess the New Year that has been gifted them.

The sea is quiet. The sea is far away. Some fishermen had cast their nets last night. But were too hung-over this morning to come and retrieve them. Their heads (the nets' and not the fishermen's) are bobbing merrily in the distance. Shiny white spheres like ping pong balls. There is a patch of brown that looks like the coast doubled up on itself. Maybe its a large muddy whale sunning its belly.

Now I'm choking on my words. A gust of wind came and left me with a mouthful of sand. I reach out for the coke bottle. Someone has poured a generous dollop of whiskey in it. I discover this at the same time as this concoction burns a trail down my gullet. (What would you call a gullet full of sand? A sea-gullet!) I take another sip.

This sand is black sand. As against white sand like the sand in the beaches of Goa. Someone volunteers this information. I stealthily file it away. A dog and a vulture race each other for a bone left by some midnight revelers. The dog leaves behind a set of limping paw prints. The vulture leaves nothing behind. Not the bone at any rate. Just a stray straggly feather spiraling lazily ground-wards.