Saturday, December 31, 2011
Monday, December 19, 2011
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
There are very few joys that surpass the joy of a new book.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Here I am.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Don’t be scared of the forceps, child
Although the knives have been sharpened well.
The needle will only prick for a second,
And you will only bleed for a while.
The steel may pinch your unformed toes
And bring a soft cringe on your slimy forehead.
It’s only a few hours’ doing, child-
Don’t let all the blood scare you.
Your mother will probably heave a sigh
Because this was the way you had to die;
Only from the clanging of metal claws,
Cocooned in mists of injected anaesthetics-
Faraway from the wars we adults fight.
Don’t cry dear child, you’ll be alright.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Some nine years back my knee shed some blood outside your window.
This was when the teenager had just realised how the world seemed a better place when the two wheels of her cycle moved so fast that one couldn’t figure out the spokes in it.
Don’t think you saw it though. I wouldn’t really know because I didn’t look up.
I don’t think you watched me walk down the road that your window opens out to, as I ran to school-always a few minutes late and came back from school, always with ink stains on my shirt.
The day I left this space you and I happen to co-habit, my taxi stopped below your window and I rolled down my glass.
Probably to take of this place all I could in one blink, or probably to let my fingers comb through this air you and I have breathed all our lives.
But not to look up, for sure.
Years later, my knee still has its nine year old scar.
We have become rectangles of yellow light we see going off and on, before the lights are put to sleep.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
the house that smelt of water boiling over wood, that had a dark kitchen with very tall shelves.
i remember tall jars of papery, round sohan papdi stacked in a row and this woman who fed them to me. i remember her sari's end that went all over my face in order to wipe out the sticky threads of the sweet.
her sari smelt of the day's lunch. and a little bit of the breakfast.
her hair was bundled up in a tight bun and i, a girl of six or seven, stared at the amount of hair she had.
hardly shampooed, seldom oiled. washed, dried, tied up. sometimes combed.
the hair was cut to the shoulder by my mother one afternoon when she couldn't take its weight anymore. there was a newspaper spread across the floor that filled up with hair. thick strands of black hair.her hairline reached her shoulders and ended at her temples.
i began to miss the big smear of vermillion on her forehead, she did too. but never mentioned.
she missed my pishi, who died some ten years back and my jethu whose dead body she never saw through the bomb blast rubble.
she didnt cry for them. not in front of us.
there were these days recently when she did cry taking their names. and a few days after that she died talking, asking her attendant to call her sons and daughters. people noted how in her last years, she began to look like her brothers.
a fight that spanned over decades, across countries finally ended with that inexplicable, nauseatingly sweet smell of flowers mixed with that of incense, room freshener and ogoru.
Rest In Peace, Amma.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Megh peon er bag-er bhetor monkharaper deesta…
(The cloud postman’s bag is full of sad papers…)
This was what I was listening to when it finally rained today. Life loves a laugh.
They tell me very old stories of running around in uniform around the school field. I feel a weird tingle of joy rush up to my head that makes me want to keep turning in giddy circles. I feel the wetness of the thin white cloth on my back as the air fills up with screams of giggly, running school girls who were in too much of a hurry to grow up.
At times, they tell me of a boy and a girl sitting at a bus stop. The lanes in my head fill up with roadside puddles as the girl’s sandals get muddy with the muck reckless taxis splash on her feet. For those twenty minutes it doesn’t matter that her feet turn a dirty shade of brown, or that they don’t have money for a cab. The boy rummages through his pocket and takes out a soggy handkerchief and the girl smiles and refuses to wipe her feet with it. He probably decides that when he grows up he’d make sure that this girl never has to take a cab, or wait for buses with dirty wet feet. Water droplets run down their hair but for those twenty minutes, it didn’t matter that they’d catch a cold or that their bus had broken down somewhere in its route-far away from their muddy potholed bus stop.
I hear of a woman who remembered how her husband used to silently wipe a tear in movie halls, how he sniffed at some music. Maybe it rained one of those afternoons when the vinyl screen flickered and he sniffed silently so that she wouldn’t know, and when she stole a look at him sniffing and faintly smiled to herself. Maybe it got very difficult to get a cab back home that evening.
Rains always paint me a watercolour of a very old story-hurriedly scribbled and hidden away in some moth-eaten, dog eared diary. Rains make me wish that they weren’t in so much of a hurry to grow up.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Monday, May 16, 2011
Monday, May 9, 2011
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Friday, March 25, 2011
- I thought you didn't take sugar in your tea.
Monday, March 14, 2011
no, i could not tell blue skies from pain then and still cant.
when the world danced infront of my eyes to a mad drunken frenzy, all i could see was that long corridor of red and you sitting at the end of it. and that face that passed a smile at times, the voice that spoke a few times in class.
i knew of your pain that afternoon we sat cutting marigold petals from their stalks, even when you sat in the front lawns staring at the sun for hours and even when they told me that you decided to end it all with that last step.
i knew and did nothing. we werent friends, and i dont know if i could help if i tried. it's just this silence over these questions that disturbs. questions thought too late, not asked at all.
rest in peace.
i hope you find that happiness you forever wished for, looked for.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Rains either make me feel very happy or extremely sad, never anything in between. And it has been raining in Delhi for two days now- the kind that always accompany the winter on its way back home. There's something comforting that I find in winters. Something very personal, probably because I am a winter born. Something soothing, something very freeing. These days have not given me much chance to do anything with them-they have been coming and going without leaving behind too many footprints. It's like walking on a drawn line- you have no choice but to walk, you dont know where you are headed but you know you're moving, getting somewhere. I dont remember the last time I was this unsure. It's like being thirteen again- underconfident, confused and zero willpower. I guess there are always those issues that never go away irrespective whether one is thirteen or one hundred and thirteen.
On good days, I enjoy my active bursts....like the day I did up the room, or went gift shopping for a very close friend, or roamed around the streets of Bombay doing nothing. On some bad days, I feel I cant do a thing and on others i feel that I can do a lot but do nothing about it.
I am hoping this is only a phase or if it isnt, that it behaves like one.
And that summers never come.
P.S: the pictures are of one of the walls of my room. The part which lies empty in the middle will soon have an original DDLJ poster I picked up from Chor Bazaar :)