Saturday, November 14, 2015

What I Can Give You

No, I cannot give you abstractions. I cannot give you heart-stopping kisses, undying love nor searing passions. I cannot give you a forever.
But what I can offer you are simple, true and real – this moment, this buttery coffee, this promise of sparkling wit, our togetherness resonating the dance of stars, this inherent sense of each other, this understanding of the passing of time, changing of dreams, of stories hiding in the eye-creases, shoulder-shrugs and yawns. I give you this moment of silence, the answers within a gaze, small empathies, indulgences, a fresh towel, a careful listening, mad ideas, this cane-chair, this chuckle at your neat, curious jokes that no one gets but me, this adoration of your smell - a heady mix of bay leaves and peanut butter. I give you my gratitude, that special chicken soup you make that I am crazy about, the fuzz on our shared blanket, your shoulder becoming a boat that holds me, the calm inside all turbulence, our insane, cackling laughter which startles the neighbour's cat, the comfortable little habits and routines that fit us like smooth three-pin plugs into life’s socket. This music, this tangible day-to-day grind, this madness. I offer you the solace of small things. How is love more real than all this? I want to breakdown this forever-ness and have it, one bite at a time.

Photo: Maria Vasil'kova

Slow Sojourns

Turmeric tinges madden the air 
pollen-suffused, ghosts of unrecalled muses 
slow swarming of bough-shivers
Twirl by twirl. Gathering. Becoming. 
A thing alive, twig-knitted sky.
moth shadows speckle-
a petalous prose intermingling
the indolent unravelling of my breath- knots
bricks warmed in a centuries’ memories
a stair creaks, lights unwind, spill-
this euphoric innerness of being
languor fills brow in slow murmurs
under my skin, bees hum
a connectedness to distant nebulae
blood thrums into nectar,
I become a honey-comb
soaking up
this unbearable lilting-
universe’s secret dance.

Image: Pinterest

Walking through Lavelle Road, Bangalore

Lavelle Road: Aloneness brims, the way back is overgrown. A seed has become a forest as dense as the words choking my throat. Here the city exists not as a scattered physical conglomeration of things but as an abstraction of imagined, unlived memories, heart-tugs and subtle sadness. A kindly, lambent entity of idle benevolence. The air was like a bite into a ripe quince. September – the month of post-card clouds, sleepy trees and sky filtering through a million dragon-fly wings. One could feel the quiescence pooling in the mouth, a rippling light weaving in and out between fingers.
I am wavering. The space between each shivery breath is so vast, it can consume heavens. Undulation after undulation, I am disappearing within until a blue unbrokeness remain.

"A Strange Place Other Than Earlobles" Now in Book Stores

Glad to inform that 'A Strange Place Other Than Earlobes', our anthology, is now physically available in Oxford Book stores in Delhi, Mumbai, Kolkata, Bangalore and Bhuvaneshwar.

Our 7 years

Commercial Street, September 2015: Duvetyn sky. Thunder tugs the starless fringe. A moist, expanding blue that drenched our eyes with its limitlessness. The ancient roars echoed in our bones. Minute earth-ghosts wafted up swaying to the call of a distant strumming and clung to our skin. Humid insects. Street lights in golden splashes brimming in puddles, wandering away into the tiny lanes, everything yellow and a little swoony under the gathering night.
We were more than the sum of our meals, breaths and habits. The 7 years grew behind us like wings. Each feather had a song woven into its gossamer strands. Memories distilled, second by second - condensing, dropping and mineralizing - a stalagmite of whispered stories, an infinity of unutterable tenderness in a single crystal. The quivering reflections were older, far more palpable than the real. We were floating along in the drift of voices, smells and lights. Pieces of infinities in a timeless embrace, reflections swallowing each other spawning universes.

Image: With my Nokia camera

A Poem for Growing Up

We don’t know who is stabbing who;
we may be in a circle
or a sky staring at another sky.
Broken mirrors locked
in an endless, helpless glare.

Note the word ‘broken’,
It has changed over the years
and it means unlike things to us-
An indoor game to you
an intransience to me.
Or simply the jagged corners
of our habits.

Our edges have been sandpapered
We fit now, lock and key,
a pleasantly ticking clockwork .
whirring away in synchronized chaos.

Bumps grow under our skin
Knots left by past winters

I guess it’s all part of getting used to
Getting along, getting old
or just a much washed
threadbare picture of love.

Picture: Pinterest