Thursday, April 28, 2011

Humanism

I live with a lizard. It clicks its tongue when i am annoying. Absolute silence, i hear, otherwise. It moves too fast and unexpectedly; or just stays there, often incognito in the brown of my wardrobe door.
We fear each other. It is too reptilian for me and i am too huge for it. I wield sticks.
It is comfortable with my refusing insects for a snack. It does not like chocolates, i am glad.

It is staring at me now, like it always does.

The lizard shall blog about me tomorrow.Do read.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

Dear Sea,

I am not talking to you. I am sorry. There are people around me. I can't talk to you the way i want to.

Yes, That was just an excuse. I am tiny. I do not know how to talk to you, though i know i want to. I know you yearn to too. You are talking to me. It is a language barrier. I can't speak like you do.

I am trying to philosophize - love knowledge. The child that i am creeps back in, a very adult child. It begins laughing, but only at people around.I convince myself that i am conversing with you as i run to you and against, jump over waves, get drenched like never before and listen to you voice. Your waves still roar at me. I cannot understand what you are telling. I see just the bubble-breaking-beauty of your foam and those waves that leap like frogs. My friend tells me that each wave comes fresh and consumes an older sandy one. I see dragons of them. Then we speak poetry.

Oh! I am already picking shells! I think i am trying to talk to you now, asking for more shells.

I know you are annoyed. I can see you eat up my conversations with the sand.

I do not know how to talk to you. I feel like a pickle now. Salty and shrunken in front of you. Using what language do pickles talk to the sea?

I am hungry and the sun is clouded over. I cannot speak to you now. I have an exam tomorrow. Worry is creeping into me like worms.

I shall meet you again next week, wearing a rain coat. Let us seek a language.

Greetings,
Someone.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

Udi

Udo and the eighth note were dating. He asked her if she wanted dark chocolates. He doubted that she might deem dark chocolates a bad omen. He had not yet gotten over the colonial hangover. She said she loved dark chocolates.

The quaver's only fear was that she could not make music, for she was a part of his music herself. She nevertheless was proud of her beautiful pair of eyes and her graceful gait. She carried the air of poetry with her.

She was just the quaver. Nothing beyond. Udo had to kiss her into being by strumming his guitar or striking the piano keys for exactly her span.

She was so much by being a just the eighth note. Each time the old lady next door heard Udo tryst with her, she wrote a letter to the old man who was out-of-home and hid it in her wardrobe drawer.

The quaver was perfect for Udo. She was neither too long to bore him or satiate, nor was she too absent to be forgotten about.

She soothed him down whenever she thought he wasn't happy. Sometimes, hidden in the ganglion beneath his hair, for his hair was too thick to reveal her. He was more insensitive to her mood swings. He responded, made her and spoke to her only when she peered out of his sheets and flaunted herself enticingly happy or sad.

I do not know if they still date. The eighth note speaks to me often. She just tells me that Udo is.

Friday, April 22, 2011

Sonnet addressed to Vittoria Colonna

As when, O lady mine,
With chiselled touch
The stone unhewn and cold
Becomes a living mould,
The more the marble wastes,
The more the statue grows.

- Michelangelo Buonarotti
Courtesy: Prakruti Ramesh

My inbox smiles

Two days of good weather deserves a Hemingway-

"With so many trees in the city, you could see the spring coming each day until a night of warm wind would bring it suddenly in one morning. Sometimes the heavy cold rains would beat it back so that it would seem that it would never come and that you were losing a season out of your life. This was the only truly sad time in Paris because it was unnatural. You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintry light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person had died for no reason.

In those days, though, the spring always came finally but it was frightening that it had nearly failed."

(A moveable feast)


- quoting a mail from Rihan Najib

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Just a tale

Her strangeness is specific. Whenever she has a crush, her dreams begin stray in. She does not dream of running around trees, blushing or holding hands. She dreams of a life after her man is dead. She dreams of widowhood.

"Never let anyone look at you awkwardly", rang her grandma. She always wore a duppatta fastened with safety pins. They came handy when she dreamt; to pop off those bubbles that were immoral.

This time she likes a guy from the neighboring class. They exchange glances. Her dream bubbles begin. She could ... pop! She could marry him. She could ... pop! She could have children. Probably she wouldn't. Her man is mortal. She could then wear crisp cotton sarees. She could walk upright. She could sink into a world of comics. She could write of anything. She could spend hours by her bookshelves. She could have her own kitchen, probably with her parents sharing it. She could live with her parents. She could sing off-pitch and dance out of beat; No one to please. There shall be none to convince of her worth. She could let her children grow up with no moral heave. They could ... pop!
She could not have had children.

Single mothers may adopt. She could adopt a child. A girl-child, who knew no blood-lines; family-histories of morality, who would drag no safety pins along.
Conclusions are strange – those paragraphs that fall at the end of almost every paper we read. They finish only themselves, in a quite self consuming manner. If i may picturize, conclusions are cannibalistic. They rise as if they were starved, to yearn for more. Each consuming one before.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

RIP Vidushi Kalpakam Swaminathan

The news of death isn't new, but it comes in a range of cloaks.

Some people die giving you a cold spine and a sleepless night. No, You needn't have been a close acquaintance; Not even a fanatic. That a piece of music on your playlist no longer has a person in reality behind it, 'now', is enough. A certain transience stings you every time you touch, like a child, the instrument of their expertise.

I believe in ghosts. Those which linger in strands of music, lessons, sights and memories, are.

I do not know if i may let the goddess of music rest in peace.

Another Refrain

'Neend na aaye, tere bina; dil ghabraye, tere bina..'

The voice melted in its own meaning.

Three dreamy pairs of eyes held dilated pupils staring down.

One, ran away to a certain faraway home-town. It knocked at his dream's door and shook her awake to his yearning.

Past the blurry image of the mat, the second pair of eyes threw on him, her locked up sack of questions. They were wailing for bitter-sweet answers.

The other pair was fighting too. She forcibly pushed off any name to the man shaped void in her mind - A space she breathes in and perspires in the pain of its being void.

There was a fourth pair of eyes that seemed undilated; drunk in just the music.

The walls and the floor juggled echoes from a refrain of five different songs.

'tere bina..'