Hiya folks, somehow not able to turn out poems however I try. Many of em in various degrees of incompletion are resting in my computer and on untidy sheets of paper. Following the wisdom that it is of no use yanking a dry udder I thought, let me treat you to some prose.
I wanted to write something on the various shades of joys and sorrows I have had the good luck to pass through. So starting with...
Pink, the Color of Joy, Seeped into my Fingernails
If I had to give joy, mirth, and fun gay abandon a color it would be pink.
I had a friend who used to question what reason what sanction one needed to celebrate life. He was an apologist for birthdays, New Year celebrations, Diwali, Krishna Jayanti, Independence Day, Republic Day, Valentine's Day...I strongly suspect he had gone around wishing 'Happy Good Friday' to all his Christian friends in his younger days until someone not quite politely stopped him on his ebullient tracks. He used to say, 'All festivals are great excuses to rejoice because to do so all alone and without a reason shall look a wee bit crazy. Imagine how would it be to burst crackers on some odd tuesday, to throw colors on each other on a nondescript saturday, or to ask your Dad for new jeans on some godforsaken day that is not your birthday!'. 'I can't feel happy just because you are supposed to be celebrating a certain date. It seems to me as fakery, plain and simple.' He would theatrically retort, 'Though it is sad that celebrations too have to be institutionalised it makes me shed tears of blood to see you question their logic instead of grabbing the opportunity to be gay abandon'. So, when he pranced on Diwali morning guiding kids quarter his age in exploding 'atom bombs' and 'hydrogen bombs' of Bijili and Sparrow brands I would spend my time on my balcony breathing the smokey sulphur fumes that rose from the streets.
I had my own reasons ofcourse. My personality came dressed up as reasons-a sobriety supported by a overdeveloped sense of skepticism when it came to human nature. I couldn't digest the fact that wishes kept pouring to no end from people who on other days would only extend a cursory nod or at best a smile. Bear-hugs, salutations, endless greetings that people could say in an unthinking 'Hey...Happy Diwali, Hey...Happy Christmas, Hey..Many Many Happy Returns of the Day' tone like a turbaned door-keeper employed to bend low in grace for every customer. I thought people smiled incessantly without investing it with any amount of responsibility. I compared it to what alcohol could effect in people. On a high, people become super-friendly, forget their petty troubles, jealousies and self-centredness, and apparently become so gregarious. Festivals seemed to have the same numbed pleasantess about them. A transitory intimacy. Automaton joy on an appointed date; friendliness for no rhyme or reason. Only to vanish the next day like crowds after a cricket match leaving the stadium littered with a loneliness (known only to the ragpickers). Is that why I have always felt the day after Diwali to be the most desultory?
I held that tokens of love held true meaning only among one's beloved ones and closest friends. They mean it. They shall bear the cross love may entail-if it comes to that. Others-acquaintances, fellow workers, batchmates, society-can't but remain shallow. But where I smelt insincerety or at best the unthinking habit of ritual, my friend held that the fact they atleast smiled, hugged, and opened up on these days was a real gain. He had then pleaded, 'Is it so difficult to be affectionate to a fellow human being, acquainted not even a total stranger, without tying him into deals of love and responsibility...No doubt these festivities are oases in a desert. But would you refuse them because they are a passing phenomenon? The stretching deserts are reasons enough to have our fill of the oasis whenever we stumble by them. Don't you think so?'. I wryly replied, 'I think they are mirages'.
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Thursday, March 11, 2004
Thursday, February 26, 2004
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
Monday, February 09, 2004
Runner's High
Lungs cry out for breatherspace,
My limb are a spent force.
In the funnel of a consciousness
that is left amidst a beat-up heart
and beaten spirit,
the chatter of the birds
and the orange orb of a sun
filter through as godsent
gifts.
My limb are a spent force.
In the funnel of a consciousness
that is left amidst a beat-up heart
and beaten spirit,
the chatter of the birds
and the orange orb of a sun
filter through as godsent
gifts.
Saturday, February 07, 2004
Thursday, January 22, 2004
Saturday, January 17, 2004
No, no one's There Calling at Home
The traffic is usual and the path is far.
Lorries wham past, and roads are potholed.
Some rain has fallen, and so it slips.
My tyres, their tread gone, skid.
Crowded buses lunge,
And the bikes' beelines make a maze.
My brakes are weak. None can
hear my horns.
I have to whizz past.
No, no one’s there calling at home,
which is as empty as the roads here.
But I have to push the needle
to the speedometer's limit-
Perfect my cuts and smoothen my
drivethroughs-Knife through
the maze and be one with
the breeze. Beat time to a second's
section and find purpose.
A kind child's sorrow smile bloom up the sidewalk.
It’s a flicker of a look and a bump in my consciousness-
In the intersperse of a fishcart and a heading lorry,
and a waterslick on the road and brakes that fail.
The traffic is usual and the path is far.
Lorries wham past, and roads are potholed.
Some rain has fallen, and so it slips.
My tyres, their tread gone, skid.
Crowded buses lunge,
And the bikes' beelines make a maze.
My brakes are weak. None can
hear my horns.
I have to whizz past.
No, no one’s there calling at home,
which is as empty as the roads here.
But I have to push the needle
to the speedometer's limit-
Perfect my cuts and smoothen my
drivethroughs-Knife through
the maze and be one with
the breeze. Beat time to a second's
section and find purpose.
A kind child's sorrow smile bloom up the sidewalk.
It’s a flicker of a look and a bump in my consciousness-
In the intersperse of a fishcart and a heading lorry,
and a waterslick on the road and brakes that fail.
The Longing and Losses of this World
The stars with no journey made.
The rain splattering on concrete faces.
The flowers smelling of sorrow
as their fate is to fall to the ground, crushed.
The birds coo, get mated and feel joyous.
But the river and the sea; you and me
separated by a lifetime's journey
feel blue and anarchic.
We discover that interesting person
At the end of a desultory vacation.
And feel the romance bloom
when dead end deadlines loom.
The sun looks great just before it sets
And leaves memory alone to feed ourselves.
The moon shines well when we are tired
and with sleep are we all drunk.
The stars with no journey made.
The rain splattering on concrete faces.
The flowers smelling of sorrow
as their fate is to fall to the ground, crushed.
The birds coo, get mated and feel joyous.
But the river and the sea; you and me
separated by a lifetime's journey
feel blue and anarchic.
We discover that interesting person
At the end of a desultory vacation.
And feel the romance bloom
when dead end deadlines loom.
The sun looks great just before it sets
And leaves memory alone to feed ourselves.
The moon shines well when we are tired
and with sleep are we all drunk.
Monday, January 12, 2004
Sunday, January 04, 2004
Saturday, January 03, 2004
Rainbow
I understood I lost my first love-
at Delhi Haat, an ordinary autumn day.
Thereby I lost my greatest entertainment,
my greatest companion and my soul turned gray.
I cried profusely that afternoon.
For myself, nay. For her, maybe. For us-I ain't sure.
But tears ran down and under a summer noon
they shall have glittered like a silver fall.
I began to run-my sobs grew embarrasingly loud.
I ran afar from her-she pulled away in a bus.
I wailed and my heart broke down against my chest.
Like a rocket's charge the release fueled my legs.
Staring down from a window seat a Delhi that passed by
I felt romantic, broken and a hero. I felt
beautiful in tragedy and momentous in grief. A thousand
violins sprang epic accounts in melody.
But I lost my capacity to love another afternoon-When on
sighting my old love after many years I had gasped
and bit my tongue too late: 'eeek I never knew she
could grow so stout'. A life's illusion died that day.
I understood I lost my first love-
at Delhi Haat, an ordinary autumn day.
Thereby I lost my greatest entertainment,
my greatest companion and my soul turned gray.
I cried profusely that afternoon.
For myself, nay. For her, maybe. For us-I ain't sure.
But tears ran down and under a summer noon
they shall have glittered like a silver fall.
I began to run-my sobs grew embarrasingly loud.
I ran afar from her-she pulled away in a bus.
I wailed and my heart broke down against my chest.
Like a rocket's charge the release fueled my legs.
Staring down from a window seat a Delhi that passed by
I felt romantic, broken and a hero. I felt
beautiful in tragedy and momentous in grief. A thousand
violins sprang epic accounts in melody.
But I lost my capacity to love another afternoon-When on
sighting my old love after many years I had gasped
and bit my tongue too late: 'eeek I never knew she
could grow so stout'. A life's illusion died that day.
Thursday, December 18, 2003
Evocation (Completed..!)
Dead leaves light, ready in frolick,
crisper than the best of chips.
With a crunchy sound you are crushed
into a thousand flickery pieces.
In a nice cookie's dark brown tone you
invite. If my sense hadn't meddled, my
sensibilities would have had you
popped in, my throat shall have choked!
Dry leaves on cobblestone paths
and on brown earth ready for the frosts.
Falling from tired branches with an ease that
fail with the words I have tried to wrought.
I pity you this autumn day for there
are no breezy winds to saunter you away-
To those cosy nooks you had sought
when fluttering, shivering from branches above.
Strewn around like warriors on a battle ground,
would you be turned into humus or fade off
like memories of kintergarden teachers
whose grandeur, age only seems to tear asunder?
Why oh crisp creatures do you with your
dark brown cookie colors wake up in me
a scent of Tragedy? Of no particular rhyme,
no reason but leave my full being lost and forlorn.
You are not to be blamed though as
Roschachs wouldn't be or a couple of
downed pegs couldn't be nor that simple strain
that made me cry alone in last year's rain.
Dead leaves light, ready in frolick,
crisper than the best of chips.
With a crunchy sound you are crushed
into a thousand flickery pieces.
In a nice cookie's dark brown tone you
invite. If my sense hadn't meddled, my
sensibilities would have had you
popped in, my throat shall have choked!
Dry leaves on cobblestone paths
and on brown earth ready for the frosts.
Falling from tired branches with an ease that
fail with the words I have tried to wrought.
I pity you this autumn day for there
are no breezy winds to saunter you away-
To those cosy nooks you had sought
when fluttering, shivering from branches above.
Strewn around like warriors on a battle ground,
would you be turned into humus or fade off
like memories of kintergarden teachers
whose grandeur, age only seems to tear asunder?
Why oh crisp creatures do you with your
dark brown cookie colors wake up in me
a scent of Tragedy? Of no particular rhyme,
no reason but leave my full being lost and forlorn.
You are not to be blamed though as
Roschachs wouldn't be or a couple of
downed pegs couldn't be nor that simple strain
that made me cry alone in last year's rain.
Monday, December 15, 2003
Saturday, December 13, 2003
Daddy's Tale
Sleep my pretty child, sleep deep
Days could grow long, this moon shall eclipse.
The night now is dark and sweet,
breeze and dew unfailing;
the dreams yet are fairytales,
mommy's lullaby accompanying.
Lock em safely in deep vaults child,
age them like wine.
Collect ye leaves and petals and
press them in your mind.
I wish your days don't stretch like mine
but someday you would see-
that dried petals and old wine
are certain cures for reality.
Sleep my pretty child, sleep deep
Days could grow long, this moon shall eclipse.
The night now is dark and sweet,
breeze and dew unfailing;
the dreams yet are fairytales,
mommy's lullaby accompanying.
Lock em safely in deep vaults child,
age them like wine.
Collect ye leaves and petals and
press them in your mind.
I wish your days don't stretch like mine
but someday you would see-
that dried petals and old wine
are certain cures for reality.
Choice
I itch to write long sentences
and track all my curious thoughts.
I wish to paint in oils the combinations
nature forgot. I ache to
to wander the green campus
and photograph against it beautiful nymphs
and to roam the city and graph its
sickly sweet sights.
But would I recognise the trade-offs,
find the will to stand by this life,
and turn blind to other petty ones
that constantly woo a baser mahesh.
I itch to write long sentences
and track all my curious thoughts.
I wish to paint in oils the combinations
nature forgot. I ache to
to wander the green campus
and photograph against it beautiful nymphs
and to roam the city and graph its
sickly sweet sights.
But would I recognise the trade-offs,
find the will to stand by this life,
and turn blind to other petty ones
that constantly woo a baser mahesh.
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
I am posting the speech that was the fountainhead of the most popular definition of Democracy, Lincoln's famous Gettysberg Speech. Lincoln has been such a great inspiration for slow starts like me!
This speech was a non-event during the occasion for which it was prepared yet in due course its intrinsic value shined, illuminated by his solid ethos.
ADDRESS DELIVERED AT THE DEDICATION OF THE CEMETERY AT GETTYSBURG
Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation or any nation so conceived and so dedicated can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting-place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate--we cannot consecrate--we cannot hallow--this ground. The brave men, living and dead who struggled here have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us--that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion--that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain--that this nation under God shall have a new birth of freedom--and that government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
This speech was a non-event during the occasion for which it was prepared yet in due course its intrinsic value shined, illuminated by his solid ethos.
ADDRESS DELIVERED AT THE DEDICATION OF THE CEMETERY AT GETTYSBURG
Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation or any nation so conceived and so dedicated can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting-place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate--we cannot consecrate--we cannot hallow--this ground. The brave men, living and dead who struggled here have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us--that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion--that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain--that this nation under God shall have a new birth of freedom--and that government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
Saturday, November 01, 2003
The Fly
In my mind there is a memory of a fly. It settled against pale yellow furniture one night in the library. After a million-flutters abuzz-flight, it settled down peacefully near my knuckles. If I hadn't seen it I wouldn't have known it. It pressurized not and its whole weight was too light to constitute even a touch.
The house fly same in Lucknow as in Chennai, apparently. Like the dozen others I have observed in my life time with primitive eyes that never get the differences right. The same grey exterior, the same transparent wings, the same way of rubbing its forelimbs together. I fancied it to refer to common leifmotifs that do not leave you even if you are not particularly obsessed by them-the house fly is one, the other is boring professors.
In my mind there is a memory of a fly. It settled against pale yellow furniture one night in the library. After a million-flutters abuzz-flight, it settled down peacefully near my knuckles. If I hadn't seen it I wouldn't have known it. It pressurized not and its whole weight was too light to constitute even a touch.
The house fly same in Lucknow as in Chennai, apparently. Like the dozen others I have observed in my life time with primitive eyes that never get the differences right. The same grey exterior, the same transparent wings, the same way of rubbing its forelimbs together. I fancied it to refer to common leifmotifs that do not leave you even if you are not particularly obsessed by them-the house fly is one, the other is boring professors.
Friday, October 31, 2003
While we are still at it, one more from the same poet. This is an old Tamil song translated so effectively by A K Ramanujan. I am not very sure, but I guess the song is from the author's translation volume, Interior Landscapes, a translation of 'Aganaanuru', which deals with the courtship, marital love labyrinth.
What could my
mother be to yours?
What kin is my father
to yours anyway?
And how did you and
I meet ever? But in
love our hearts have
mingled like red earth
and pouring rain.
What could my
mother be to yours?
What kin is my father
to yours anyway?
And how did you and
I meet ever? But in
love our hearts have
mingled like red earth
and pouring rain.
Thursday, October 30, 2003
Many stay puzzled by the name I had chosen for my blog. Maybe what follows shall be justification enough...
STILL LIFE by A K Ramanujan
When she left me
after lunch, I read
for a while.
But suddenly wanted
to look again
and I saw the half-eaten
sandwich,
bread,
lettuce and salami,
all carrying the shape
of her bite
(bold mine)
I am wordless to comment! Whatdya people say?
STILL LIFE by A K Ramanujan
When she left me
after lunch, I read
for a while.
But suddenly wanted
to look again
and I saw the half-eaten
sandwich,
bread,
lettuce and salami,
all carrying the shape
of her bite
(bold mine)
I am wordless to comment! Whatdya people say?
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
This is a poem I wrote almost an year back. I agree that it might not make much sense to
anyone than me. But I love it for its imagery. What would you love it for?
The Living Dead
In the obsolescence that is fast becoming life
The green of the grasses isn't yet white, yet
the sun is paler the moon darker, the raging
ebb and tide of the oceans a pittance to what's inside.
Seething in thy heart's recess and tides
there lie different beings waking in contrasts;
The baked surface cracks often when the
seed waiting for its fortune comes against the bulwark.
I said wow! The sun that so lovely mildly touching
the walls of the building: There was none around
and the orphan beauty made be lonely. Tis not the sun
alone, nor others blind. There is a hole in the heart: that's news.
Schizoid's son. Melting cans. In the hot sun
the cracking fields. Thus runs the faultlines across my
heart. That the only love that I could ever feel
with welling tears is for the kid, the dog; the ants that tide across my path.
anyone than me. But I love it for its imagery. What would you love it for?
The Living Dead
In the obsolescence that is fast becoming life
The green of the grasses isn't yet white, yet
the sun is paler the moon darker, the raging
ebb and tide of the oceans a pittance to what's inside.
Seething in thy heart's recess and tides
there lie different beings waking in contrasts;
The baked surface cracks often when the
seed waiting for its fortune comes against the bulwark.
I said wow! The sun that so lovely mildly touching
the walls of the building: There was none around
and the orphan beauty made be lonely. Tis not the sun
alone, nor others blind. There is a hole in the heart: that's news.
Schizoid's son. Melting cans. In the hot sun
the cracking fields. Thus runs the faultlines across my
heart. That the only love that I could ever feel
with welling tears is for the kid, the dog; the ants that tide across my path.
Monday, October 27, 2003
The Blind Attractions of an Adolescent Cow
On Sunday I went to the city to get myself some passport-sized photographs. The place I had to wait to catch the bus back to the Institute belonged to cows and dungheap. I have read and seen in those stylised actions of the Spanish bullfighters how Bulls are inspired by that deep intense red. It is some amorous color for Bulls!
There ofcourse weren't any Bulls where I waited. There were a lot of cute looking beings which were somewhere between being a calf and a cow. I have always considered cows with a certain empathy, even a certain love. Manythings about them were beautiful. The way they ever so languidly walk-not the irrevocable, incurable laziness of the buffaloes-their big shapely eyes that seem to be richly outlined with kaajal-so much like those of deers...its difficult not to like them. Sometimes somewhere I see girls I can compare with these lovely beings.
Well as I said I was waiting. And there was this,lets say adolescent cow just hanging around the place. It was some time before it sighted me. Only after a few seconds could I notice that it was getting interested in me, making as it were imperceptible moves in my direction. I was in no mood to shoo it away as it did not seem to be agressive and as it yet hadn't grown any horns. So I just let it on its course and moved away graciously thinking that I was in its path and not the other way round.
I only expected it go its way. Yet it came resolutely, obviously towards me-as if I was a bunch of plantain or banana leaves. I pushed its head away from me. I egged its body away from me. It too persisted. Then I looked at myself and then I saw: dark green pants, a bright green shirt which for the should have been the most attractive color in the 7'O clock darkness and a very very apt dark green plastic cover in my hands.
On Sunday I went to the city to get myself some passport-sized photographs. The place I had to wait to catch the bus back to the Institute belonged to cows and dungheap. I have read and seen in those stylised actions of the Spanish bullfighters how Bulls are inspired by that deep intense red. It is some amorous color for Bulls!
There ofcourse weren't any Bulls where I waited. There were a lot of cute looking beings which were somewhere between being a calf and a cow. I have always considered cows with a certain empathy, even a certain love. Manythings about them were beautiful. The way they ever so languidly walk-not the irrevocable, incurable laziness of the buffaloes-their big shapely eyes that seem to be richly outlined with kaajal-so much like those of deers...its difficult not to like them. Sometimes somewhere I see girls I can compare with these lovely beings.
Well as I said I was waiting. And there was this,lets say adolescent cow just hanging around the place. It was some time before it sighted me. Only after a few seconds could I notice that it was getting interested in me, making as it were imperceptible moves in my direction. I was in no mood to shoo it away as it did not seem to be agressive and as it yet hadn't grown any horns. So I just let it on its course and moved away graciously thinking that I was in its path and not the other way round.
I only expected it go its way. Yet it came resolutely, obviously towards me-as if I was a bunch of plantain or banana leaves. I pushed its head away from me. I egged its body away from me. It too persisted. Then I looked at myself and then I saw: dark green pants, a bright green shirt which for the should have been the most attractive color in the 7'O clock darkness and a very very apt dark green plastic cover in my hands.
Sunday, October 26, 2003
How the Name Came About.
My friend Sonia named herself in MSN as 'Oh names what a pain!'. I felt so too when all my names were rejected one after another as aleady being taken.
My first choice (of salutation) was Phaedrus after that intense hero of Robert M. Pirsig's first novel 'The Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance'.
My second attempt was to have thesundew my long-running hotmail and yahoo id. That came to naught too.
Then came to mind, frangipani, buoyed because I had found the name of a flower i had been in love for so long. Well, not yet lucky.
Then I keyed in confidently, 'theshapeofherbite'. I knew many people shall immediately imagine erotica; such it is common evocation. But the phrase has as its fountainhead a poem by A K Ramanujan titled Still Life.
My friend Sonia named herself in MSN as 'Oh names what a pain!'. I felt so too when all my names were rejected one after another as aleady being taken.
My first choice (of salutation) was Phaedrus after that intense hero of Robert M. Pirsig's first novel 'The Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance'.
My second attempt was to have thesundew my long-running hotmail and yahoo id. That came to naught too.
Then came to mind, frangipani, buoyed because I had found the name of a flower i had been in love for so long. Well, not yet lucky.
Then I keyed in confidently, 'theshapeofherbite'. I knew many people shall immediately imagine erotica; such it is common evocation. But the phrase has as its fountainhead a poem by A K Ramanujan titled Still Life.
I am blogging inspired in great part by my college mates Venkat and Sabnis.
Especially Sabnis. I was pleasantly alarmed because during all my occasional visits to his blog I see him write things I thought only I had noticed, felt and thought. Like the funny negotiations with the water-sprinklers, his paean to frangipani (I am happy the flower hasn't just a solitary fan), his photographs of the oils monsoon created across the evening sky, his alarm at hosteliers stealing his songs during morning baths...I think my alarm is similar to that alarm of his! Oh...here are my thoughts, feelings, and observations which I had been so privately enjoying...so much so that I begin to have proprietary sentiments over them, and then here is Sabnis blogging them. Some jealousy...!
So I thought I shall say, here arrives a rival over almost the same 'subject-matters'.
Especially Sabnis. I was pleasantly alarmed because during all my occasional visits to his blog I see him write things I thought only I had noticed, felt and thought. Like the funny negotiations with the water-sprinklers, his paean to frangipani (I am happy the flower hasn't just a solitary fan), his photographs of the oils monsoon created across the evening sky, his alarm at hosteliers stealing his songs during morning baths...I think my alarm is similar to that alarm of his! Oh...here are my thoughts, feelings, and observations which I had been so privately enjoying...so much so that I begin to have proprietary sentiments over them, and then here is Sabnis blogging them. Some jealousy...!
So I thought I shall say, here arrives a rival over almost the same 'subject-matters'.
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