Unnamed #3

Do you remember the fragrance from the Frangipani behind our room

Told us stories of different lands that we all knew never existed?

Remember how we sneaked in dried nuts and put them under our pillows

To be strictly had, in the dark, during those insane story telling sessions?

I remember them like I would a favourite jigsaw puzzle from those days

Pieces you know will eventually come together but not right away

I remember some songs, some funny games, and fights we had over nothing

And how it all ended without a warning and vanished behind the doors

Occasionally, I would read these novels that had the two of us in the middle

They were us, with different faces, different names and different stories

But I would ride through the story like a desperate and wounded horse

That had to reach before it fell on an unknown plot and bled to death

Your best friend left the country and you cried because she didn’t ask you once

My lover walked out and I burnt all his letters that we knew were seriously lacking

Under my bed, rotted a stuffed bear that my second lover gave for a birthday

You poked fun at me, called me a child and ran out of the room with your pigtails

You make me smile even without intention and from that overwhelming distance

You and I no longer ask, call, speak, wish, love, hate, cry, laugh, smile or argue

Lives were parted, with a wide-toothed comb, possibly to untangle the rough edges

Causing deep lines, differences, lack of interest and general disregard for each other

We turn defiant, annoyed, and annoying, and let our egos take over as puppeteers

You walk in the snow, hurt your neck, shiver in the cold, go months without money

I burn in the sun, hurt my neck, reel under the heat and go months without money

It’s ironic, isn’t it, how in a way we live identical lives without even asking for it?

Unnamed #2

Now that you have worn all your gold

That dances to the light from the window

And sung your song and read your story 

Is your head, now resting on his shoulder?

I was there. Right there, somewhere visible 

I told him once, perhaps slightly too aloud 

That our fates were fastened together

And then, I told him again, this time quietly.

You banished the chillies out from the curry

And fed him slowly, bite by bite 

As he stared into your eyes that mirrored his

And dreamed of the wild ocean at your feet.

You walked, leaving a trail on the sand

He sat, afar, watching with addicted eyes

While you smiled unknowingly, blushing a little

Whispering his name into the seductive breeze.

I tore at my hair and gouged my eyes out

Bared my soul and abandoned my ego

Told him. Begged him. It was only him I could love

But it was never too often and never too surely.

The two of you built a castle without walls

Filled with jewels, children, felines and tureens

You laughed, wept, shared tales and relived moments 

And made love in summer without complaining.

I saw it all. I saw it from a distance one can't measure

Cracks had begun to appear on my cursed forehead

I forgot the lines, the maps, the names and time

From your door, I didn't quite know the direction.

Unnamed

I cradled her in my arms as she slept. The tiniest of fingers wrapped around mine. I couldn’t sleep. What if I missed this tomorrow morning? And as she began to smile in her sleep, dark circles began to form around my eyes. A candle burnt on the table, threatening to end before its turn. Overworked candles. I always felt a little pity for them. Thankless jobs.

Can one daydream at night? I have often wondered. As a few familiar books began to collect mites on the shelf, I thought of our first day together. ‘Our’ day. It was special. There was no else after classes. We were watching the clouds shape-shift. “It is going to rain,” you had said. I didn’t have an umbrella, and hadn’t cared.

That was, what, 20 years ago?

Adhuna was sleeping on the floor. Her old bones would give up at night, as she would writhe in her sleep, often fighting bad dreams. I would watch her too. Why did she work here? I hardly paid her anything.

For three years, Adhuna took care of me, and now her. She came to me like a discarded orphan, well into her fifties, asking for a job. I needed someone to just be at home when I came back every evening.

For three years she worked without complaining. My little flat looked like a home within a week of her employment. After many years, I didn’t have to eat dinner silently.

Diva by day, broken by night – month after month, I had fought the craving to end it, the charade I was playing without a break. Adhuna would wash my clothes and iron them carefully. She would oil my hair once a week and shampoo it as I sat on a stool with water and tears pouring down my almost naked body.

Adhuna. Adhuna became Adhuna ma.

I had named her Adhuna as well; the original was not going to live for too long. I needed something to remember her by.

I had saved money for Adhuna; money I had sworn to never touch.

Six months before the little one came, Adhuna went to her village, to meet her brother and sister-in-law. I had handed over ten thousand rupees to her, money that I had saved for her, and told her to buy them something. She came back with the money, shoved them into my hands and never spoke of them again.

It was 4am. An unnatural force was dragging down my eyelids. I fell asleep.

When I woke, it was already 10am. Adhuna had cooked my breakfast, packed my lunch, fed the baby, bathed it and was sitting on the little balcony reading out the newspaper to a five-month old. I never asked where Adhuna learnt English. I felt she would be embarrassed if I did.

It was my tenth year at the newspaper. Things had changed. From a sensible set of pages, the paper had turned into something that fed the population only with what they wanted. There were no opinions, no stands taken anymore. My day began and ended exactly the same way – with a sigh.

The morning of my so-called ‘anniversary’ at the job, Adhuna brought out my favourite tunic. “Wear this today. You look very nice in it,” she laid it out on the bed. Lining my dark eyes with some kohl, I tied my hair back. I didn’t really know how I looked anymore. I had stopped looking years ago.

“Didi, I have cleaned the breast pump,” Adhuna said, handing over the silly contraption.

It was a long day at work. There was an office party at the Press Club that went on till 1am. After literally forcing a news editor to drop me back home, I walked up the stairs of the dilapidated building. A decade. I have seen other decades. A decade of marriage. A decade of romance. A decade of friendships. Nothing quite stays.

Even if you tie it to your soul with a magic link, things have a way of slipping out of your life. There is no ‘forever’.

A tall glass of cold water brought me back to my senses. Stop complaining, I said, you have more than what you deserve and much more than some others. Everything that functions in your life is a miracle.

Switching on the light in the bedroom, thanking that there was no power outage, I washed my face, my feet and changed clothes.

Where is he?

Does he know what day is today?

Is he thinking of me today? At least today?

An Ernest Hemingway lay next to me. I had read it five times already, and had started it all over again.

Tomorrow might be the same but it will be a different day.

“What do you think Adhuna? Will I get a raise this quarter?”

There was no answer. Even the baby didn’t stir. Even the lingering shadows of a dead adopted mother and a baby had disappeared.

Yes, tomorrow will be a different day. But it will be the same.

--------

The verandah

They don’t touch

But stand

Apart

They share silence

Because they

Can

They smoke together

They burn

One

An occasional word

At times

Happens

A forgotten memory

Comes through

Sometimes

They turn around

And gently

Kiss

They smile within

It’s love

Forever

Red. White.

It was about five inches wide

A bold blood red line

Trailing in the wind, against the shadow

Hiding from the sunbeams

Softened by yards of white

The red line carried wrinkles

Familiar ones; the ones you own

And a smell perfectly overpowering

It ended in a tear unplanned

Caused by a rebellious nail

No one told you. No one cares

 About a nonchalant birthmark

You wore that red for decades

And carried the white like burden

Your face became unknown and unfamiliar

In the multitude of reds and whites

No ceremony or announcement

Your departure was as silent

As your inconsequential arrival

All they did was leave you with your red

Note #1

Hold my hand

Take me home

Gimme a life

A light in the dark

Sing a song

That calms me down

Speak the words

That speak the truth

Walk with me

Banish the fear

Stay with me

When the end is near

Give me a life

That is far from here

And I will give you mine

When it’s curtain call

Death of a dream

A mad wild dream of running down the stream

Collecting rogue pebbles that gather no moss

Kicking an odd twig or two right across the edge

The birds singing happy songs in words I don’t get

Where the houses and buildings melt away

The earth swallows the tar whole, black and set

The smoke retreats back into those lowly tubes

And freedom breathes gold, blue and red

The sky paints the stars in limited edition pixie dust

As they glimmer shyly from behind their veils

The moon, drunk from a night or wanton revelry

Laughs like a delirious old fool – loud and resonant

It’s in this dream you appear from behind the shadows

Your blade sharpened, dripping of red from the last battle

Creases of sorrow and death folded above your brows

And you crush the soft glades beneath your muddy boots

You come to find sleep you say, as your hands smell of pain

Men have hunted you, chased you and pierced your faith

And women have forsook their intuition and screamed

In fear that you have been sent by the unknown evil

“I ask for nothing,” you claim, “only some quiet moment.”

And settled under the non-judgemental tree to close your lids

I watch you, in deference, as only I can see the truth in you.

“Rest here,” I say, “for the morning will be a better promise.”

Somewhere, miles away, in a world that has lost its dreams

He watches my body shiver to a myriad happenings

And questions the whole morality of our existence

“If even by mistake, she dreams,” he decides, “she must die.”

Love?

I looked behind the curtain

Under the bed, inside the wallet

I ran up the stairs, left nearly breathless

And looked under the potted plants

In the kitchen, behind the sink

Under the sofa, over the closet

And between the ruffled sheets

I even turned the drawers upside down

But all was in vain; I found love hiding nowhere.

star struck

I am shy. My English is not that good you see.

Sometimes, I see you in the photograph of that magazine

I get houseflies in my belly

I stand on the balcony, playing with the end of my braid

It avoids the ends from cutting, ma says

And the coconut oil turns into ghee in them

The rowdy boys from the next dirty building

Once or twice, wave their hands at me or sing

But my eyes are stuck on you only

You never come to this city, they say

Because we are far from the train stop

But I have no river here for you to take the boat

The flowers are blooming big and orange

The curtains are smelling of orange flowers

And my eyes are dark from all the kohl

Then the burning smell; I left the rice on

Now it is sticking to the bottom of the pan

No food tonight even, but you are there no!

A Positive

She smiles a broken one

It’s a bit lopsided, with hints of saliva

Dribbling down the side

That she can’t quite wipe off

With a tender hand, she reaches out

To touch a smaller one

That trembled in fear and wonder

She comforts, without any comforting

A missing toe, a mangled nose

Distorted lips minus the colour

A damp white sheet, washed once

Transformed into her saving grace

The tiny little face stares at her

Her dishevelled hair lay flat

As she twisted her little thumb

Around one cooperating curl

Ten years, seven months and eight days

Not quite enough to kill her soul

As he broke her body little by little

She just smiled. And kept on smiling

Measuring distances

Someday when the lights are so dim that the shadow you cast from the room to the verandah won’t appear so frightening anymore - and in that little second that it takes you to cross the room and into the depth of the tree outside - I’d have written my song.

That little song I promise you many afternoons ago; when the summer heat had little consideration for our intentions.

The verses would be open and so would the tunes; we'd change them as we like and sing with our hearts clear of guilt. 

The ruffled sheets have been changed a million times and more and yet they bore the fragrance of stories we shared; something funny that we could never let go of or even fingers that were entwined, as if war was on our doorstep.

The telephone could be swiped a million times and it would not run out of my DNA and perhaps if one tried harder, some conversations too could be secured.

I changed rooms, curtains, lanes, streets, cities, jobs, men, lovers, clothes, shoes. I even tried to change the way I think. Funny, none of it was in vain.

All of it seems so far away now.

C’est La Vie – or not

Do restaurants that aim to bring new cuisines into a city bear the responsibility of making sure that the diner’s experience is anything but disappointing? Afraid so; but very few live up to those expectations…

I have never been to France. It’s on my bucket list, but I am not working on my bucket list at the moment. However, I was willing to travel to Seven Hotel to their restaurant called C’est La Vie. Well honestly, I was surprised that the place is still open, considering no one had been talking about it for a while. But instead of relying on my instincts, which is what I should have done, a bunch of us drove out to Outer Ring Road to eat ‘French Food’. It was an exciting moment for all of us. And as we brushed up on the five French words we knew to identify names of food, the restaurant and café brought a smile onto our faces. It was cute.

And that was the end of our fabulous journey.

The menu at C’est La Vie was anything but French; except for the Duck Parmentier and a few dishes here and there. They had chicken nuggets on the menu and stuff that we only cook frozen when unexpected guests drop in.

But willing to forgive slighter misgivings, we ordered a bottle of wine which came with a free cheese platter - cheese being slices of processed cheese and a few slices of brie that didn’t look or taste too fresh.

And then there was the Chicken Pappiti – neither of us knew what that was. A few pieces of chicken were rolled and stuck with toothpicks and looked a little like bacon wrapped chicken and served with fries. They weren’t bacon wrapped chicken. It was more like chicken tossed in a kind of vinegar and pan-fried. The fries were good, especially with a bowl of ketchup, and I don’t even eat ketchup.

The Warm Goat Cheese on Bread looked rather rustic, in a nice kind of way. However, that goat cheese could be warmer and I can’t quite imagine the fussy French biting into large chunks of toasted bread and having crumb all over their plates and expensive clothing. Some greens were on the side to resemble a salad and hidden underneath were cubes of cucumber and tomatoes.

I also believe that the goat cheese was kind of older than I expected.

I don’t know how the main course tasted because whatever we wanted to order was either not there or ‘not good’ according to a chef we never saw appear from the kitchen door. The Duck Parmentier was on the top of our mind but not made available to us.

However, the Bisque Soup was sort of edible. Bits of prawn in a nice wholesome tomato based soup – I ate that to control my growing rage because the Chicken Brie Soup was heartbreaking. It smelt of flour of coconut milk and was so pale than I could have seen a ghost. There was zero texture and where on earth was the spinach that is supposed to go into that soup?

The table next to us was taken and the diners there too were having difficulty with the food. I realised their problem when one said, “As far as I know, pesto sauce is supposed to be red in colour.”

Sadly, much to their disadvantage, they didn’t know that they were in a restaurant that completely fit their dining profile – clueless.

Nope. Looks like I have to start working on that real bucket list soon.

Poetry is in the pain

There is a method to the madness

A rhythm that is not quite patented

A picture that talks of many histories untold

That took behind the thin, insecure door

It trickles, from the tank overhead

Through the winding pipes and rusted corners

To the stained plastic bucket

That waits patiently for the results to be declared

Her right index finger carries evidence

Of a few occasional burns

Of splattering oil or boiling water

And even the bite of a mad dog

With that same index finger

She sifts through the black grains

Hoping it has little dust

So as to find just the granules for the first cup

And as the light breaks into the room

Through an undesirable crack in the glass

It dances to a familiar yet distant tune

As she rubs a quarter plate in vengeance

Then she breaks into a routine smile

With cup and saucer in hand

And one browned bitter rusk

She walks over to the ledge

Feet dangling, slurping sounds

A crunch unpleasant, as crumbs gather

On the lap that has held no child

She breathes her first free breath

---- Ends ----

Sleep world

Sleep world, as I disappear into the shadows

Where haunted memories, like perverted termites,

Gnaw into the corners of my soul.



Conspiracies murmur through the alleys

And lies and deceptions breed without moderation

Only I walk past in silence.



With every fashionable change of heart

Rusts the truth, bit by bit, layer by dastardly layer

And it all crumbles to the ground.



What I know or what I possibly believe,

Is what they’ve been feeding me from the start

Only you stand your ground, laughing.

a complicated equation

I have oft been called flippant; sometimes, even fake...
I wouldn't discount a silent utterance of 'shallow' either
I can be all of these and more, if that makes you happy
And prove all the rumours right just to make you smile

You can stare at the ceiling and wonder what I am thinking
But no specific thought travels within or without
Unless you want me to think, only to please your question
Then I can think random thoughts to fill those gaps

I can change my statement to prove your innocence
Cover up tracks that you so blatantly disregard
And yet from the corner of your slanted eye
You wonder if you can come about to trust me

It does not matter. At the end of the whole saga
The leaves will fall and touch the ground
Composing a crackling sound as you walk away
A sound only I will hear in my nightmares for eternity

The last wave

If you can hear me, I am on the other side of the shore
The waters are deep and wild, and death is certain
The tall waves are at war, with each other
Gilding the invisible walls with their saline froth

The bridge I built is broken, my humble apologies
It may not have been strong enough for the two of us
It crumbled into the ocean in perfect silence
But be assured, I built it with all that I had...

I have to walk away now; as the tide rises to swallow me
And you must find another land to make your home
Walk away, step back - the sand is disappearing fast
If you can still hear me, I shall now say goodbye.

He says.. she says...

If she hadn't pointed it out, I'd have missed this brilliant phenomenon. Have you noticed, if you have cared to read film stories that is, how actors and actresses have this divine habit of saying "I am taking it slow" or "I am waiting for the right script" or "I don't like to rush into films that I might regret later" and so on?

It of course didn't dare to cross my mind that most of the actors who say these exact words are in three words 'not going anywhere'. They have very little scope to make an impact in this glamour-riddled industry. I'd also like to add that they aren't exactly bad actors but shoved aside by doctored destiny or competition. Either they aren't great looking enough (after all, cinema is all about fantasy, no matter how real) or don't have the right contacts (read: they're not on the right couch!). They could be fabulous on screen - intense, passionate with impeccable dialogue delivery and a good sense of timing. But no, they won't make it.

The bad actors with zero screen presence won't make it either. Unless they have a face that can give men something to dream about at night.

But that's the women.

Male actors have it better; well, at least in most cases. Or else can someone explain to me how some of the ugliest actors, who aren't spectacularly versatile on screen either, are called super-stars?
And if they don't make it as lead actors, they become 'character artistes'. But I'd take a character artiste over a commercial hero any day.

Film journalism is bizarre. Very few people actually write about 'cinema' anymore; not the way feature stories used to be written about Raj Kapoor, Satyajit Ray etc.
Today, it's all about what's happening in the actors' bedrooms or at social dos and who's smoking up or snorting the wrong stuff. And most importantly, are they wearing the right clothes and driving the right car or scratching some competitor's eyes out or not.

There sure has been a change in the cadre recently. They don't make men or women like they used to, anymore. Blame the genes and the motivation above all else, I'd say.

Nargis will always remain Nargis. There can never be another one. Madhuri Dixit could look like Madhubala but the enchantment of the actors of yesteryears can never be replicated. It's practically impossible.

But yes, the climb is similar. I bet at some point in her life, Nargis would have said, "I am waiting for the right script" to someone. As for the rest and more, some pulled strings, some did not and got lucky and some just waited at the gates of studios to see if they would get lucky. And then there will always be some actors who could shine and yet, will never be heard of.

I love the movies - in almost any language that I can get my hands on, with subtitles in some cases, if you please. And I love the charm some of the actors create on screen. Sometimes, I want to be like them but in many cases, I want to be with them. But it's a world that's murkier than the Ganges.

It's a good thing I write about food. You know when it is spoilt.

Butterflies

When you smile, the grey dots turn purple
And with every frown, the stripes of green turn yellow
From the room to street, your rushed countenance
Modifies the little specks of red into something more mellow

And as you walk, a trail of gentle and fluid flapping
Follows and with every wave of hand to say goodbye or a hello
It moves, pauses and turns with you in the revered tranquillity
As the wings murmur your words in a restrained echo

A million of them, in an oath of invisibility, shield you
The movement of your every brow is stored safely away
Like how fairy tales have their happy endings
They spin your chronicle when you stir from day to day

They disappear when only you close your eyes at night
And come to me with their handwritten but unseen scroll
Till dawn they sing, in a voice I have never heard before
And one by one, all the butterflies colour my soul.

“In my room”

From my window, the view has not changed in more than 12 years. The tree has only expanded to have a few leaves reach into my room. The summer afternoon is always balmy – the furniture is different. Except for the shelf on the wall and the metal cupboard, I can’t remember much of what used to be. But the feeling was the same.

It was in this room that I fell in love, in this room I shared laughter with those who left and with those still around. It was in this room I heard music for twelve hours straight. It was in this room I decided that my life was not going to be mediocre. It was in this room that my heart broke and it was in the very same room I reconciled with life.

It is no longer my room. It is just there, for guests like me.

But in that sunny room that has seen the most beautiful rains and exotic evenings, time has stood still. It’s not just my life or my memories. Concealed behind those walls are secrets – secrets people have thought as they sat on a wicker chair, sipping tea and munching on tidbits. Stories that have been narrated, behind closed door, music put on high volume, lest of all my parents hear.

I have often lain across the bed, with my feet barely touching the floor, reading a book that I shall never part with. I have written words that made sense and most that didn’t. it is in that room I decided who my friends were and who would walk away when the time would come.

I lived in that room with my sister. She of course didn’t like the idea very much.

We have moved on to become different people, crossed boundaries and reached places that will always remain a bit alien to us. We have embraced reality that we don’t really identify with and we have walked the line that looked untrustworthy.

Probably because deep down, I know that room is always waiting.
Here’s to my closest friends (you know who you are!), the artist whose work hangs on the wall, the incessant chatter, music, grins, tears, laughter, pain, chaat, samosas, chai, cigarettes, occasional alcohol, perfumes, and most of all, love.

Here’s to the love of my life. You shall always be.

Don't tell me

I know what it is about love that makes it so ethereal. A sense of passion that doesn’t quite judge boundaries, a casual smile or a hard kiss – like you really mean it. And really mean it.
Through days of hunger or shame, it’s the only feeling that stays rooted like a virus, feeding you through its sweet venomous fangs. It’s the only emotion that goes past time, memories, history, economics and sociology.
It’s the only concept that makes you quiver, simply at the thought of it. And while you take out the trash or put the dryer on spin, you break into a shy smile, even when no one is watching. You can think of him, standing in a queue and touch him in your head and visualise the spot near his mouth, the one you’d often miss when you’re with him.
You’d mean it – every bit of it.
And when you fight, throw things at each other and call names that you had sworn yourself off, you’d still love with an aching heart. You’d want to, in the middle of the most ridiculous argument, want to break up and never see his face ever again. And you’d probably walk away because you’re done.
And then, after much water has passed under the bridge, the feeling will rekindle itself – rise from the ashes, just like the phoenix, lick your wounds and plant new feelings in your heart. Just that, they won’t be new – you’ve known them all along, you’ve wanted it. Deeply. Incessantly.
You’ve wanted to tear through the lines of division just to see him smile; even if it were for the last time. And of course, the one kiss.