Chiffonesque

I was talking to my aunt on the phone who was updating me about my uncle’s health. (He’s recently been admitted to the hospital for a heart condition.) In the background, my bratty nephew is apparently trying to tie a ribbon around the receiver. My aunt who hasn’t had enough rest since the last few days tries to ward him off like a fly. “Shoo! Not now..I’m talking…come later…” , I hear her telling that two-feet volcano. And I hear a lispy, baby voice retort, “ Why? Who is more important than me?” Oh well…..

it’s been a few nights of frenzy and chaos to the core it feels new and crazed and beyond reason and it’s felt this way before it’s been a few nights with no sleep with dreams scabbing in the fore clumps of Orion stories stale grubby crusted lore in the dead of night on the crest of light poetry tip-toes to the door sends a kiss and darts right out and it’s been that way before so now the doors are bolted and latched and sealed within around sometime when the moon sets i hear the doorbell ring. poetry stands with a jug of tears at having upped the score you lose a muse, you win a ruse and it somehow matters no more no more the orion stories no more streams of lore no more memories or moments to use, misuse and explore there will be everlasting newness splices difficult to ignore that will never jade or fade away or solder to a classic ‘before’

I have moved to Hiranandani, Powai, this Sunday. So far, it’s been only one day, and it’s been supremely good. A quick list of why my bed, by books, my view from the window feels like a groovy kind of love: I share a beautiful little house with two other people. There are two comfy, slouchy cane chairs hanging in the living room; there’s also a nice black leather couch on an endless, endless marble floor A roomy kitchen, two fridges, and a really charming area outside the kitchen to have dinners and breakfasts and afternoon tea in A reasonably big bath Twin-beds in the room with a sweet little ledge to sit and read on A terrace A garden that offers that the most heavenly bouquet of redolent fragrances at night; that and pretty sights of the moon and clouds…all those traces that went into the writing of ‘She walks in beauty’ A marvellous walk in and around the fountains and garden spotted roads of Hiranandani A quick distance from the place I worked in earlier – the place that filled m

It's been a long, frenetic week. So long and so frenetic that I couldn't write about it while I was in the midst of it; I couldn't whistle about it even when it was over. But I decide to do some breezy articulation just before the next, frenetic week begins. The thing with long, fenetic weeks is this - it exhausts one to think about it, much less remember the interesting factoids (and by interesting, I only mean infuriating - hindsight is such a delightful palliative). So I thought I'd write about something that made me chuckle. Not very strangely, the incident happened while I was in an auto . (And though the phrase doesn't sound as sweetly romantic as 'while you were sleeping' , I guess it could be the title of a movie. Small-budget, independent film or something. A play, at the very least.) Anyway, it's around 10:15 p.m. some night when I'm returning from office. I'm wearing a skirt which, by virtue of being bright yellow and pink, attracts lo

This morning was horrible. I was stuck at Sion for two whole hours for some inexplicable reason. The roads were not any more dug up than they usually are, and there were only two cars with busted tires. No major accident or anything. I do feel a little pathetic now; for being disappointed at not finding any worthy calamity to attribute the delay to. In any case, there I was – stuck near Sion station, crawling one inch every ten minutes. If I shut out the cacophony on the road, I could hear the silent simmer of my blood boiling. So, to ward off an ulcer and not pop a blood vessel, I decided to think of something nice. But my eyes kept darting to my watch and a huge blanket of curses kept getting thrown over my lofty intentions. I once worked with a really smart lawyer. He was also one of the more optimistic souls I knew – which made him some kind of an oddity amongst his ilk. He told me that when one gets tired of a city, one must regard it as a tourist; not a local. That way, one can b

It’s the last time a bubble Would waft my way again With tints of clouds painted And shades of forest rain It’s the last time a sunset Would break across the sky Swirled with innocence of an open heart And rhythms of a sigh It will probably be a while Until a shock of orange leaves Flutter in perfect harmony -- The way beauty bereaves And perhaps from this point on Clouds won’t be rented by eagle wings Or afternoons dazzle with fruity songs The kinds dragon-flies sing The lotus-shaded twilight And crushed jasmine dawns Wane away so silently Leaving an extended night forlorn With a smiling sobriety, all seasons seep through the sky But there’s something quiet and tragic When summer passes by The light, the youth, the pathos All drowsy deaths they die But bequeath innocence of an open heart, and rhythms of a sigh Note: I was in Pune this weekend. I don't know if I will go there again. This is an ode to that uncertainty.