your restlessness

tell me something, you say.
(i look up at the fan) tell me
anything nice. (the bed is
comfortable. i need to get the washing
machine repaired.) your breasts
are like two puppy dogs -
some might call them perky, bold,
posey, raunchy, sultry or even
dreamy. but i only want to
rub their little noses with mine.

mmmm, now tell me of my feet.
your feet become a tribal queen (no
pearly soft, wintry white princess
from no fairy tale), worthy of
covering mountains, rivers and
deserts on a palanquin. if i were
the gym going type, i'd carry you too.

hah! and how about my elbow?
your elbow is like the celebrated
strait through which all ships must pass.
Jerusalem in the palm of your hand to
Africa ever unexplored. London bridge lies
all furled up on your bed, see these
pretty pink sailboats cross...


i ask if i snored.
you turn and with
your morning voice, say,
maybe.

Delicate is

not just powdery butterfly wings, or
catching floating soap bubbles, or
boiling tea leaves till the tannin is just right, or even
playing every artificial harmonic. but also
adjusting a Philips gramophone needle,
holding a thinly wine-glass (right before you've broken it),
finding fluttering eyelashes with your cheek, while
patiently mending a broken heart.

Blue

There was this quiet boy in office, and there was this quiet girl in office, and they bumped into each other once in a while, exchanging hellos, goodmornings and smiles. He never really spoke, and she never really spoke, so nothing was said between them for a long long while.

Then, one afternoon, it so happened that the quiet girl stood behind the quiet boy in the office lunch-line. As always she smiled and as always he smiled back. But this time, she told him that she felt everyone was a colour and that she was the colour blue. The quiet boy nodded, for it sounded deep and profound and he couldn't think of anything to say.

But since that afternoon, the boy was entranced - he would think of her every time he saw anything blue. His old blue blanket would remind him of her hair. Each cloudy curve in the sky would turn into a contour of her face. His soft faded jeans would get him imagining her skin. Even the Internet Explorer icon would get him thinking of her blinking her eyes.

He had never noticed so much blue. Blue. Blue. Blue. He couldn't work. He couldn't sleep. Always coming up when he thought he was through, a single colour turning his life upside down.

Then, one morning, it stopped. Miraculously and of its own accord. And it so happened, that the quiet girl stood behind that quiet boy in the office lunch-line that day. And as always, she smiled (though he got all conscious and averted his vision). She told him she no longer thought she was the colour blue. She said she now felt green.

another ode to soleil

Sunset streams in through my window
  sweet
    thickly
      like honey
        lapping up
          against my walls
            soaking into
              my books
                and my music.

I gleam, I radiate, I beam -
I too am a Sun!

down with flu

Yesterday
i'd resolved to finish the poem: your mouth
a swollen ripe pomegranate, the recoil
of your nipples on my tongue, the thick
grassy smell that fogs over your skin. each line
a metaphorically chosen rhyme
to tell you i burn, even
when i am not with you.

Today
i am teary, (and not
from falling in your eyes) - i have
a fever, and all i want is to
set my muzzle on your thighs like
a lovelorn dog. you noticed i could write?
i have gained a yearning that is stronger.

This Above All

Look thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportion'd thought his act.
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.
Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg’d comrade. Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel but, being in,
Bear't that th' opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice;
Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgement.
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy;
For the apparel oft proclaims the man;
And they in France of the best rank and station
Are of a most select and generous chief in that.
Neither a borrower, nor a lender be;
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.

- William Shakespeare (extracted from Hamlet)

meebaa and meeboo

On a bright and sunny day in June, Meeboo asked Meebaa out for a climb. He said the air'd be fresh, the view'd be delightful, and that they'd be back by dinner time.

Meebaa concurred and so they left, two happy ants of one happy mind. But the monsoon wind did blow, making Meebaa's march slow, she'd soon fallen far behind.

Four hours later Meebaa was lost, she'd forgotten of the air and the view. She stopped, sat down, held her head in her palms and wondered what she should do.

But Lady Luck smiled warmly on this meek of the earth, for right then she heard a singing in the gloam! And who could it be but her daring old friend, who'd surely guide her back home.

On the way back Meeboo spoke of how he'd return, to get perfect view from the perfect tree. Meebaa only smiled and said, "And I'll come to keep you company!"

Natchenka Shumkova

image: the unfinished Adoration of the Magi by Leonardo da Vinci

This my dear reader, is the story of a painter.

As of this very moment, it has been exactly twenty years since she touched a brush. Not from the lack of time. After all twenty years is too long to allow for time as an excuse. Not from a lack of inspiration either, for every change in season brings about its own stirrings in one's soul. Nay, she stopped painting from a complete lack of will, using the only excuse she deemed permissible - that she was not good enough and lacked at imagination, the one innate gift that could not be learned through laborious study.

And at this very moment, she wonders if she was happier then in pursuit, or now in appreciation. And contrary to the countless examples of resentment and of repressed lives, she concludes that she is satisfied. That she had grown into being happy, just as she had grown into being in love. After all, one never realizes when one stops pretending.

it's easy to be

let me take your cares away,
let me plan your holiday.
troubles sailing out to sea,
it's easy to be.

i got mountain tops under starry skies,
blue waters with a soft sunrise,
got good people, shining places to see.

let me take you far away,
let me plan your getaway.
life is all of what you see
it's easy to be.
free.

(written for www.tripraja.com)

sunday afternoon

Fresh vegetables,
    green vegetables,
healthy, lean and
    clean vegetables!

With all your sweeties calling out to thee, pray when will you get to missing me?

whiskey talk

i met him in a crowded bombay bar
my table had an extra chair
the drink went down, we got to talk
and he laid out his troubles and despair.

he spoke of darkness, and the killings
where boundaries of religion and peoples were rife
destroying the caring, the creating, the growing
the true whys and wherefores of life.

he spoke of his loves, and his soft pulpy heart
said he'd loved each as he'd loved his song
giving a part of his soul with every farewell
and if on purpose he chose them wrong.

he spoke of saving what remained of himself
for what, he didn't know anymore
of small variations to break the routine
making each day a little different from before.

and when it was time to go he took my number
saying we'd catchup again sometime
said this could've easily been your story
just as easily as it could've been mine.