Wednesday, December 12, 2012


Thus you have became my consequence, 
my distraction, the hourly ritual
my eternal return.

Wednesday, November 14, 2012


We are each other’s syndrome,
midnight snacks,
an expression caught unawares
(a twitch in the jaw/ that guffaw!)

familiar as the mole on my arm,
stranger than the odd Amazon fish
you dreamt of one fever ago,

We are, of each other,
impromptu photographs
older than comets,
than zygotes
than air.

you were that crossroad on a winter night
the face springing up on patchy, wet walls
the leaf that bedazzled the breeze
made a fleck of daybreak dance
that changed the course of a certain destiny
you are my disorder
the laugh in my head
the lump in my throat
the lurch in my stomach
music under my skin

We are dust motes winking, twinning
in an astounding speckle of light.
We pull apart earth’s skin,
invent secrets to fill
our drunken mouths,
we are each other’s discoveries,
culmination of all permutations and intuitions
from the first cell
the primordial breath
until this moment
we are a life time lived
on that starry graph
all the glasses we didn’t break
all the mirrors that never saw us
wemust be fate’s whimsy
we are each other’s schizophrenia
I draw a cloud on you and we drift up
you turn into a well and I brim
we are books we meant to read
(or write or wished to tear apart)
review, criticize, or keep under the pillow

You sum up what I have split into
an uncomprehending equation
We are the otherness in each other
mere configurations
created, filament by filament
a blend of  all that comprises
this chaos
we are chaos
we are-
lets empty ourselves, lets dangle our feet
lets sit there, at the edge of this incredible lustre
lets do nothing !
but watch this story take roots.

Picture: Us. 


My head is an unremittingly dripping tap
a bag full of sea, a beckoning nitrogen can,
Darkness has endless maddening shades
(take a lick, it tastes like dust)
a landscape of needles that will wrap around me
filling insides with white noise and nausea.

Just living here, looking at the sky filtering through the million dragon-fly wings, the pealing bark of the silver soon grows beyond the flesh, becomes something porous, transparent, soaking up the stillness and expanding wisp by wisp into a dreamscape of greens, silver and blue.

Picture: View from my laughing window. 

Sunday, September 23, 2012


A city where similarity is a style statement, where competition is a way of life. 
A city where one can easily sink into the comfortable cocoon of inconspicuousness, a city with surprisingly intense prejudices. 
A city with the quaintest pubs, where waiters are cooler than the customers. 
A city of denials concealed in its corners, fissures and shadows, tiredness in its nerves and aches. 
A city of dead-ends and of agonizing permanency, a city whose sense of humour is sadly limited to making fun of cultural stereotypes, where poverty has a bitter tang, festivals carry a joyful vividness and insecurities carry a furious arrogance. Despite its carefully veiled ordinariness, one can’t ignore the absurdity of its pride, the honesty behind its shallowness, the abundance of its cows, contact-lenses and liquor shops, the brevity of its promises, the mellowness of its sunsets and the suddenness of its loves. 
Bangalore, you stuck-up, adorable brat!

Tuesday, September 18, 2012


Right now, if my shadow grew wings
It would fly up, attach itself cell by cell
to a dancing dry leaf, summary of autumn
tumble down, embrace a pond
that once drowned a shriek.


Have you wondered which part of you falls in love
My bones do this all the time, 

deceiving monsters
Nudging the lethargic battered heart, intoxicating brain
Instructing all the hairs to stand erect

I want to love you in all variations of green
in all arrangements of the clouds
in cuneiform, in origami,
with the satisfaction of a solved rubik’s cube.

Rounding Up

There is a satisfaction of being inadequate, to relish in its singularity, to carry it proudly like a war wound or a tattoo. At 26 my mind is as contrary, tortuous and unbearable as it had always been. It’s a festering wound, a demented bird, a debilitating illness, not confined to a single space in my head, but roaming over my body like a rabid animal. It induces nausea, quite chuckles, an eerie passivity, excruciating levels of orderliness, a frightening sanity. I look at people and notice their veins, the biscuit crumbs on their chins, the stressing of the‘t’s, their voices turning into long, rusty iron chains rattling against an abstract train track. I listen to the holes, little crevices in their narrations, a tiny space between a verb and a proper noun and hide there. Each such chinks are like hidden quarries, bowl shaped grey caverns to disappear into, a suspended animation. What normally might result in a frenzied outbreak seem to have the opposite effect on me – a bizarre meticulousness. I plan the week’s menu every Saturday evening, even analysing the daily nutrition requirements, the six slices of tomatoes for lunch, the glass of soaked fenugreek after dinner, I have boxes labelled for keys, small change, bills, sticky notes detailing everything on the cupboard.

I have taught myself the art of being vapid, it’s easy- I maintain a vague, friendliness with the people around, memorizing and practicing heaps and leaps of light, asinine, feminine conversation, giggle over some cruel gossip, express the necessary ejaculations over their  prejudiced, ignorant opinions as if they were the most insightful things I’ve ever heard, coo and gasp over the photos and (agonizingly lengthy) videos of their leaky-nosed, sticky brats and practice to perfection that horrible tinkling laugh which people find so charming in a woman. To my own amazement, I found that I have even started humming a saccharine little melody while folding clothes. Oh the effort it takes to preserve an insipid, grinning, mildly inquiring, slightly idiotic face! I long to blend into the wall behind, or disappear, have the courage to give them all painful wedgies and run away to the Himalayas. I don’t think this is a recent occurrence; it was there in me since I could remember except during those moments when my mind was numbed by the temporary joys of ice creams, trains, religion, Pink Floyd, woollen jackets and other trifle.

When I was 11 I read Saki’s The Mappined Life and suddenly that dormant switch of realisation blinked on – yes, this is as good as it gets, period. The morose works of Samuel Beckett, Kafka and Camus I conscientiously read to prove some unremarkable point merely reinforced what I knew already. Being someone who is easily amused helps to an extent; behind this elaborate act I put on I observe, manipulate and laugh at them and their seriousness. Yet, I never seem to get rid of that brutal cynic within me.

I don’t understand those annoyingly cheerful people saying ‘wake up, live!’ when life in itself is an oxymoron. The outside of my body is alien to me; I puzzle over the transience of my nails, the swelling mosquito bites and the sudden bruise on my knee. It’s so easy for something to suddenly break, tear, bleed, sugar levels to go down, pressure to shoot up, and heart to stop beating.   I long to give up all that I am holding on to and place myself in the hands of a bunch of brainless, authoritative, capable people. A ‘home’ as they call it nowadays seems to be an interesting option. I have long ago given up on death, despite the alluring call of the blade, the smiling insect-like being beckoning me from the edge of tall buildings, the come-hither eyes looking at me from vast water bodies, my terror of disturbing the natural tranquillity of my body with its bad teeth, brittle nails and terrible digestive organs is painful.
Being institutionalised doesn’t seem such a bad idea, better than pretending that everything is normal, eating little of this and that, carrying on mindless conversations, arranging things, tittering pleasantly, when deep inside I am barking mad. I would have a very simple set of priorities, one single role to play, being mad. I could sit inside a white-walled room, fascinate over the pills prescribed for me, figure out how the food given to be was created, ingredient by ingredient, remain silent for infinite stretches of time, keep a book full of dried flowers and laugh that remarkable laugh which I have that people find rather unnerving. I would cackle without a break, feeling my voice hitting the wall and bouncing away. Right now, the ideal thing to do is numb my mind. Give it anaesthesia, suffocate it with chloroform, fit a clockwork it its place, practice the smile, the nods, the cheap conversations, cooking tips, some local gossip, mindless bits of news, who killed who, who married who, skin problems, weight issues, balancing femininity, classiness, brainlessness, banality while inside me that scream grows louder and louder.

Everyone starts off expecting great things out of life, great careers, great loves, brilliant homes, delightful people to hang out, loads of money, but eventually one is extremely grateful if she can have a little corner to sleep  at a reasonable rent (need not be a room, one cannot have the luxury of such expectations, a corner will do, a rug, a sheet, pillow optional), a few ephemeral belongings to adhere to the society’s idea of decency, some money to survive and some kind of distraction that would keep one away from suicide. Everything else, even love, even dreams are inconsequential and optional.

Saturday, September 8, 2012

In the Wilds

Woke up inside a 200-year-old room. The soggy cloths on the wall hangers had terrible nightmares. Hair, cheek and right-hand that were near the window were speckled with tiny, wet, yellow leaves from the tamarind tree outside. A lady-bird measuring the circumference of a toe-nail. I look up and see a beautiful woman sitting on a branch, eyes the colour of the pond she once drowned in. Old doors have a way of looking upon you benignly, coxing you to sleep a little longer, the wooden bolt bent into a kindly smile, knobs blinked and winked until the first ray froze it back to lifelessness.

I want to believe that when I return I shall be changed, I shall carry this extraordinariness within me like a pace-maker, a flaw or a reconfiguration. My cells might be replaced bit by bit by clouds, daylight or dragonflies.

Friday, August 17, 2012

To Lord Byron

You were what streaks a lucid lake
a skimming green bird, a shooting star
antithesis of a lizard’s walk
cumulus clouds tumbling in
its sandpaper belly
a roaring, restless wave.
You were the subtexts
embroidered in red and gold
configurations of a lovers blanket;
near-caresses, a renaissance exhale.
Sir, I believe your cloudless climes-
in my sweaty verses, be found,
treacherously camouflaged.

All the precious trifles you dropped
fleeing from embrace to embrace
I confess I stole them, treasured in
sparkling candy wrappers
decorating my inky songs
my drunken muse, my drummer
carrying a loved regret in your bones
reptilian discernment,
a Dionysian delirium
I dream of catching your tail,
a velvety wing, if only you had a spare seat
you egoistic aristocrat, solipsistic monster!
But see, I have a death grip on your ankle
And I am joining you, forever, in your
ecstatic, terrifying, brakeless flight.

Thursday, August 16, 2012

The Other

I am afraid of these hallucinations

the yarns, gurgles and names you drown-
sometimes let slip between chews of toast
Alas, your mouth is clever, it swallows what slithered out
revised replies squeezed out through teeth
concealed by gulps of coffee and dismissive laughs.
I can see them on the sea-floor
the water is too clear
I search for her anti-matter
Under your tongue, nails and answers
her intersections and backdrops you scaled
where have you hidden her?
I am capable of such self-torture
holding her picture, zoomed
pixelated, extreme close up
in a coiling rope of curiosity
no greater hell than comparison
her folds and crevices and mine
did you notice that mole?
picturing two tangling and unravelling silhouettes.
familiar touch on an alien skin
I am worried that I will never find out
just betraying signs of distraction
a touch too brief, a reply too elusive
a truth too decisive.
No, don’t muddy the water
let it remain borderline
let me remain too
in the end, everything turns to poems
to dust, rust and oblivion.

- Mikimbizii

Image: A still from Giulietta Degli Spiriti

*Inspired by Federico Fellini's Giulietta Degli Spiriti (1965)

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Treasure everything you are holding, everything you love

Everything that represents my life (not the larger abstraction, but the day-to-day middle class, chaotic, transient version) has always been askew. Recently it just seems to have become a little more interestingly askew. Text books in tethering piles swallow all of my tiny blue table; suddenly there is so much to study, no matter how long I spent time with them, pouring over their convolutions. Apart from the number of odd jobs, I now study too, just out of curiosity; it’s not a subject which will increase my career prospects.

My existence seem so temporary, a life revolving around two suitcases and a hugful of miscellanies, a cache of love, borrowed beds, borrowed tables, borrowed bathroom time, rented rooms, some imagination, a few friends, several imaginary friends and a plethora of roommates. And all those things in between, brought, given, treasured, destroyed, given away, flung to pieces out of a barred window, discarded in a sad heap, lost or just forgotten. At times I long for my old home under the banyan tree where I lived for fifteen years, my entire childhood. It held elements that keep popping up in my dreams and writings. It was so old, nearly a hundred years old, with a tiled roof, wooden ceiling and large windows from which I used to swing and play. The floor was adorable, made of old red clay tiles that remained cool throughout the hot summers, so were the rooms, so many of them that it was impossible to not stop playing the many games I made up and do my homework. 

The banyan tree with its million roots hanging, twisting, coiling around each other and the creepers that grew over it all made it look like a large, benevolent monster.  Now all that is gone, a new, renovated house stands there. I lived there for another five years, not very happy ones but still good because the banyan tree was still there.  But those are now just objects, the city grew up around it and we too had to move on. I started my solitary adulthood, with one year as a student in a hot, coastal city, sharing an apartment with nine girls, then to a cloudy city on the plains near the Nilgiris where I first lived in an empty dormitory which was above an asylum (really). From then on, it was a life in constant flux, moving, moving always loving and leaving shoddy rented rooms, apartments or hostels. 

Where I live now, my home in the woods, is also a temporary arrangement.  The blue table, the blue chair, the blue back pack full of more books all will again get into  boxes and move into another little flat near a forest (not the table perhaps). But that too is transitory, I might then move to another place which has the most amazing staircase I’ve ever seen (apart from the spiraling one in my old school), or to somewhere else hopefully near some wilderness. From there too there is a long term shifting plan, perhaps deep into the forest, on the top of a misty forest, on the slopes of a pine and silver birch grove or a hammock under a Jacaranda tree, where I hope to die watching the dazzling purple constellations against the cloudy, blue enchantment.

Packing books into boxes is a slow process because I am compelled to flip through each of them, read a portion and reminiscence. Every read has a memory, Virginia Woolf’s works remind me of the small corridor next to my block in college where I used to sit and read, Kundera reminds me of my first job, the crazy night shifts, the insomnia and the stoic, cynical side of me, Atwood’s poems are attached to all that is strange, they cling to my entire adulthood memory, so does Borges, Neruda, Pessoa and the Beat poets. Lorca reminds me of all the finest moments of falling in love, whether it is with a human, a cat, a tree, a landscape, a particular shade of sky or an object. It oozes love, that expensive, imported treasured volume of his complete poems and illustrations that I bought after compromising on a lot of other immediate expenses.  There were others too: a good bunch of European fiction, poetry, books to die for, classics, a small bunch of non-fiction, a few from my childhood. 

And of course there was Nabokov, that Russian drug! My dopamine, my amphetamine. Lovingly read, word by word, over and over, the pages smelt to see if I could inhale in those words, held tenderly to my heart and guarded so carefully. I came upon the following passage while going through one of his little-known, but remarkable work known as ‘The Gift’, it describes what the protagonist of the story, who is an aspiring writer, felt when he heard that his manuscript was finally accepted by the publisher:

“The drizzle seemed a dazzling dew, happiness stood in his throat, rainbow nimbi trembled around the streetlamps, and the book he had written talked to him at the top of its voice, accompanying him the whole time like a torrent on the other side of a wall.”

It’s those few moments like this on earth that comprises heaven. What makes me happiest are the small things I discover each day, little treasures, lost things, a favourite smell, some old memory suddenly remembered, a taste, a line, a word, a flicker.  

Picture source:

Monday, June 11, 2012

Longing is the
eternal swallowing
of a trembling throat.

Friday, June 8, 2012

Quotable Mikimbizii

You know what they say about shadows? Shadows are the anti-matter that remained after the soul was created out of reflections and liquefied emotions. It cannot exist by itself, the anti-matter, so it attaches itself to the soul and takes the shape of the body. It doesn’t have a volume or a mass, its just dark nothingness. Your shadow comes alive when you are sleeping and stand vigil over your unconscious, watching the dreams trickling in and floating out. At the waking hour they snip off the sharp edges, the umbilical cord of the dreams, fold them into paper planes and throw them out of the window. Or else the dreams will stay stuck to the mind and seep into your daily life. 

        - February 20, 2010

Sunday, June 3, 2012


If oblivion was a sleeping bird
I’d hide under its silkiest, mellowest feather
And never wake up again.

Friday, May 11, 2012

That Frappyloonious Day*

Ah sroovulpulous people!
we wiruleved the troddle day 
with prixupitous tea and buttery jabooxzekay-
we abroddled the bristly quibba cakes.
The poopy hen cried throughout the mellirubitous night
to see the kabjullar romance 
All those who came, witnessed the rabblurinous dance
of the froogluloop frogs and the grimply goog ducks.
They gooted and clumzed until their tibba feet bled,
and started an endless trot_
while on the spangling flurb all the bifunoos wept,
watching the rumiling gloors.
It was an utidoop day indeed we said,
Alack! Alack! Alack!

* Inspired by the Jabberwocky and the Vogon Poetry

Tuesday, March 27, 2012


I am becoming more and more removed from the world, from the things that I used to understand and the things that understand me.

I witnessed the death of an experiment when I saw the ridiculous disappointment in a parent's eyes when his son told him that he wanted to become a cartoonist.

There are two kinds of people, the ones who love their school-days and believe those were the best days of their lives and the ones who love their college days. I belong to the first category, I still miss school. Somedays I dream of waking up as a child again from a terrible nightmare about being a grown up and running to school. College was a disappointment except for that one brilliant but eccentric teacher who taught us film-making and that old, magnificent  library.

Small things return to me from time to time, like the book 'To the Lighthouse' that I once read. I was a maladjusted undergraduate when I picked up a cheap edition of this remarkable book from a road-side bookseller. But the moment I started reading it, a whole new world burst open upon me, I stepped into an avenue of new experiences and a new level of aesthetics that I was unaware of previously. Reality faded along with the petty and trivial jabberings of my classmates and the shallowness and maliciousness that surrounded me. Suddenly nothing seem to matter, all those trivial things that the world thought was important seem to crumble and melt.
It was the second part, 'Time Passes' that filled me with so much of something incomprehensible, a rich sense of mellowness and nostalgia and a desire to love, protect and live in that beauty of everydayness. From then on there was no turning back, I regained that sense of wonder I had as a child, I realised that adulthood was optional, I may grow old, but I refuse to grow up and be sucked into that ridiculous bigoted world.

"So loveliness reigned and stillness, and together made the shape of loveliness itself, a form from which life had parted; solitary like a pool at evening, far distant, seen from a train window, vanishing so quickly that the pool, pale in the evening, is scarcely robbed of its solitude, though once seen. Loveliness and stillness clasped hands in the bedroom, and among the shrouded jugs and sheeted chairs even the prying of the wind, and the soft nose of the clammy sea airs, rubbing, snuffling, iterating, and reiterating their questions —”Will you fade? Will you perish?”— scarcely disturbed the peace, the indifference, the air of pure integrity, as if the question they asked scarcely needed that they should answer: we remain.

Nothing it seemed could break that image, corrupt that innocence, or disturb the swaying mantle of silence which, week after week, in the empty room, wove into itself the falling cries of birds, ships hooting, the drone and hum of the fields, a dog’s bark, a man’s shout, and folded them round the house in silence. Once only a board sprang on the landing; once in the middle of the night with a roar, with a rupture, as after centuries of quiescence, a rock rends itself from the mountain and hurtles crashing into the valley, one fold of the shawl loosened and swung to and fro. Then again peace descended; and the shadow wavered; light bent to its own image in adoration on the bedroom wall..."   

-  Virginia Woolf (To The Lighthouse)

Some dawns ignite in me an overwhelming desire to get out of my bed and run away, just grab a few essentials and sprint for life. I am yet to figure out from what I want to run away.

Friday, March 2, 2012


March is always a month of indecisions, of sparse preoccupations and of deep, deep incomprehensible sorrow. The morning sky is stretched out like a stale, over-chewed blue bubble-gum. I can almost smell the March sky, it smelt of lengthy delays, long-distances and of old buses. It turns its enormous, sticky eye at me all day long, its gaze becoming fiercer as the day starts to sweat a fine mist of despair. Things change in March, I suddenly notice things, how they have grown old, how their stubborn stains and shadows remain clinging to the walls, the drain pipes and in memories. It leaves an unpleasant taste at the back of my throat. The slush left by an old monsoon flood has eaten into the metal gate, the silver and sangria patterns on the corroding gate appear in layers, like a stack of x-rays. Bones and wings of exotic creatures, fossils of carboniferous plants and eyes of giant dragonflies all showed through the rust. There is something about rust that is so alluring; it is a reminder of the fickleness of things. It’s distressing to know that I cannot remove the ugly green paint on the house next to mine, or bury the broken bangles that I found lying on the side walk. The pigeons outside my window will never talk to me. Someone once told me that my eyes were the colour of rust; I didn’t know if that was a compliment or an insult. Perhaps all the memories of the universes I’ve seen are now slowly rusting away from my eyes.
Every night I nervously huddle in my bed with a stack of books feverishly turning pages, trying to eat up the pages or perhaps willing, almost beseeching the pages to consume me, allow me to sink into the multiple worlds it held within its lines. This is like a secret ritual that I performed possessively and obsessively along with the lines I bleed onto my notebook - oh, you can’t call it something as banal as writing. The words struggle to fit into the rigid shapes of the alphabets, grammar, phrases and sentences. But there is something more here that I struggle to capture, an elusive something like a torn wing of a fairy fluttering on a dusty window sill, always a little beyond your desperate grasp. There it dances manically and all you can catch is the fine dust it leaves on your finger tips and its filigree-like lengthening shadow trembling on the wall.
There is a tree outside my window that is always laden with heavy pomegranate-coloured flowers. The petals look like clusters of puppy-ears, furry and creamy attracting myrid bees, cuckoos and one lone squirrel.  I may not see it ever again and this makes me want to cry so I kept watching it yesterday until the sun set. In March ordinary things assume significance, the stack of empty instant-noodle cups have grown taller over the months, the tear on the pillow case has become longer and I am possessed with an intense pain at the thought of leaving behind the small pencil scribbles on the wall above my bed.
March is when old memories visit you. As a child I used to scream in terror and wake up in the middle of the night from monstrous nightmares and my parents rushed to me with glasses of hot water, a jar of Vicks vaporub and sometimes even a small tidbit to calm me down, a rolled up chappati with red jam dripping over the sides or a few milk biscuits. After marking a customary cross on my forehead, they bundled me back into bed and left sleepily. I lay there for hours blinking and staring into the inky blackness forming shapes that watched me with their dark eyes. Everything had eyes at night, even the innocuous sofa, the derelict cupboard and the half-open door opened their tiny, piercing black vacant eyes and watched the huddled, frightened girl. I fearfully strain to catch the last, sleepy mumbles of my parents as the replace the vessels in the kitchen, trip over the hall mat, bump into some furniture and finally go to bed. When the last sigh and the last cough had died down, then begins my lone fearful vigilance;  my gaze madly bounding from wall to wall, to the table, to the cupboard, to the inky darkness beyond the door, the ticking of the clock, wondering when the first blue light of the day would dispel the terrors in the room. Falling asleep was hard each night, especially on nights when I knew by some instinct that the dreams were going to be bad. The prettier dreams left me delirious in the morning as I woke up with my fists in tight clenches hoping against hope that I was still holding the hand of the cute, cerulean fairy who visited me in my dream, or perhaps a handful of moon-like dream pebbles that I picked from a forest stream.
As I grew, I stopped having those hideous nightmares; I suppose the nightmares of daily living in an adult world full of terrors left me too exhausted to dream of further horrors. What I see now are amorphous;  flickering  pools, spilling, swirling shadows, shape-shifting organic diagrams and mirrors that laughed at themselves, burst into million pieces and swallowing  iridescent landscapes.
Last time I went to my home town, one of the old nightmares returned, I don’t remember the details except that I knew that it was March, that it was hot and that there where cruel, disgusting, uncannily human-like creatures in my dream, all slowly, cruelly taking apart a shabby China doll.  I woke up screaming and my parents, though a bit surprised, again brought me glasses of warm water, dabbed Vicks vaporub on my head and nose and put the cross on my forehead. But this time my parents didn’t leave me and go back to their bed, something made them stay with me for a while, eventually my mom lay next to me for a long time stroking my head. Perhaps they knew that leaving me alone this time might send me over the brink, the darkness would have probably broken me. The furniture didn’t open their vacant eyes that night. Despite being a grown woman and definitely stronger than my mother, I felt much safer feeling her fingers on my hair. The next morning I was unusually cranky and found transparent violet smudges on my windows. I am yet to figure out what they are. While leaving, I picked up a handful of pink seeds from a broken seed pods, they were sighing. I wish I knew what seeds they were. A bird wailed in the wind, its sound elongating over the electric lines. Dawn was breaking and I knew I could go on and on, it’s March after all, when things just start losing their outlines. 

Picture: Seeds found outside my home. 

Monday, February 13, 2012

I don't believe
in you
you, reader,

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

And the weeks that went by

This week I finally learnt to accept
the impermanence of things
its beauties, its tragedies
the persistence of certain memories
the agonies of forgetting
and the rush of remembrances.
this week I read the story of a mythological hero
gifted with a thousand arms*
this, they said, made him one of the greatest warriors.
I wonder why he wanted to be a mighty warrior
When with his thousand arms he could be
the world’s greatest lover.

This week I saw a cat with a broken rib
with the brownest eyes ever
the benign little face had no shadows
 a fine equilibrium of space and time
a handful of golden rarified air.

This week I inverted reality, saw it through the
blue and red translucence of ink bubbles
It began with paper people
crumpling and walking away
mincing steps filing down
the wastepaper basket
had never looked so interesting
as it did this week

Going through my old Joyce and Woolf collection
I felt I have been living for a long, long time
22 was a long time ago,
The year I started this blog
The year I finally learnt to speak up.
At 26 I still feel like bawling
I still feel like sliding
down the wooden banister of my new office
I still want to play, alone,
with my imaginary friends.

I said goodbye to an old room this week
To the paintings on the wall
Scribbled a note to the next occupant
Left a part of my soul with a friend
manifested as quaint subtleties
paper clouds, splashes of paint
a ball of deep purple wool
and dried jacuranda flowers
that preserved in their lilac veins
memories of an old misty summer

This week I noticed the number of people
that were leaving life and its cacophonies 
while I am always left behind
delving on its roots and wings.

This week I have reduced my priorities
to just two things:
make money
and not make mistakes.

 'the child is grown
the dream is gone’ *

* Kartavirya Arjuna (Mahabharata)
*Comfortably Numb (Pink Floyd)

Picture: Bubble prints on paper. (Drawing ink and washing soap)

Wednesday, January 4, 2012


Do you talk to yourself? 
Do you see slowness? 
are you willing to die for your friends?
Do you believe in love? 
Do you still remember that smell?
Does it still bring an overwhelming-ness in your throat? 
are you curious, or do you blindly believe?
are you light?
are you free? 
are you forgiving?

Picture: My imaginary friends (Drawing ink on paper)

Monday, January 2, 2012

What I Used to Imagine About You

I used to imagine that you were made of lullabies or of something rare, treasured in a jar of spices. Your every touch releases a thousand doves into the rarefied air. Yet you preferred to unravel the tightly knotted shadows of trees and explore the inky singularities spreading all around. The cosmos was an enormous kaleidoscope for you which you shook, prodded, tilted and turned and stared and stared, finding new perspectives, colours and exquisite patterns in the shape of ordinary things. I put mirrors around you so that you could look inwards within you away from the world and in the process find me too, a quiet shadow watching you, watching you...trying to see if I might catch you watching me, atleast once. But you were too engrossed in how the light bounced off your ebony curls, in the hypnotic depth of your twilight eyes and in the bronze glow of your arms. I knew you had a tendency to stand too close to the edge of the ocean unmindful of the waves, or to walk off through some tangled, forgotten paths leading to snowy peaks, no matter how much I try to hold you back in the desperate ardour of my embraces. I interlaced you then, along with all the pomegranate-scented days, into a dark wall - an air-tight wall around my soul so that I am immured in my secret wilderness along with my convictions.  The truth is unbearable.  I would like to smoke up, get high on a heavy joint of delusions. I know you might find it silly, sitting stoically at the edge of the cliff your skin tasting of peanuts and warm bay leaves. But it’s not your fault; you see, I know you are incapable of seeing me as I am - with all my unicorns and all my wounds. 

Picture: An interesting picture I found on my paper cup sometime back.

Sunday, January 1, 2012

Turning 26

Sometimes I feel that I am part human and part made of some forgotten allegory, perhaps a trick question a bored traveler discovered or a delicate move in a chess game. Instead of growing up and getting sucked into the serious, responsible task of adulthood I seem to drift along… a torn wing caught in a gale at times, at times a still piece of sky reflected in a pool or in a child’s eye.  Some days back I woke up imagining that my insides had turned into clouds, another day, three of my imaginary friends brought the rain clouds into my city just for me. Today, for some obscure reason, I am filled overwhelming gratitude to everything around me, the cobwebby posters on the wall, the clock whispering to itself, the soft glow of the monitor and the inky night outside. I have lived another year, I turned 26 today and somewhere in the vast universe strange things are moving, shifting their position and softly singing just for me.

Picture: Drawing ink on paper.