Thursday, October 01, 2009

Much To Be Told. Little To Be Said.


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And as the song plays in the background
Turn down the lights, pour me some champagne
Dance with me, sing me a song
If only for one heartbeat
Tell me you love me
Because my love, here we are

At last.



P.S: How magical is Etta James' voice?

Thursday, September 10, 2009

The Proposal


















She hated her fingers
he loved to kiss the tips
she called them fat and stubby
short too
he laughed
and patiently said he loved her still
fingers and all
and even as he slipped a ring
she knew the shimmer couldn't blind forever
not once the arthritis set in
creases deepened
and wrinkles formed
so looking at her fingers
and in a voice as still as the air around
she said 'No'.

Saturday, July 11, 2009

Dillema

Too short for The Rockettes and too tan for The Smurfs. Where does that leave me?

Sunday, June 28, 2009

Answers

Nothing is relevant.

Except, Martinis must not be had with Vodka. Only Gin.

And Gin and Tonics need to be imbibed with a certain melancholic sensuality.

Nothing else is relevant.

Saturday, June 27, 2009

Questions

Could any amount of Karmic bribery cancel out repugnant Cosmic debauchery?

Friday, June 26, 2009

She Is A Woman, She Sighs When It Rains

Rain loudly proclaims
of things that are to come cloaked
in dark enveloping cloud
of elemental feelings
which are then dropped in increments
of greedy fat raindrops
accompanied by an ominous sigh.

----------

Its hard to tell when the
mist, the spray and the rising
steam all come together
but in one over caffeinated moment they do
to unravel the most knotted thought
and lie silently in waiting
for that unbidden deepest sigh.

Friday, June 19, 2009

Scotch. Neat And Succored.

He dreaded to hear her sigh,
was it one of deepest content
or that of an unfulfilled desire?

And with those confounding thoughts
he swirled his drink, again and again
going around in circles, chasing tails.

He wondered if the sigh signified
coming to a truce with the fates
a stalemate so to speak with destiny.

It was hard to tell, he cursed for the hundredth time
and poured himself another if only to ease
the growing unrest, if not to quell the rising doubt.

She sighed with a smile in the quietest of moments
her eyes belying nothing of the turmoil
she must know she unleashed.

And yet sigh she does when she thinks no one is looking
or perhaps when sure someone is,
the mysteries hard to unravel.

And with every long drawn in breath,
he strengthened his resolve.
And with every hastily expelled sigh,
he once again was left to refill.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

In A Musical Sort Of Mood

Okay, so am not a ‘musicals’ sorta girl but, there are a few that just make me smile! ‘Singing In The Rain’ anyone? How I love ‘Good Morning, Good Morning’! For a (very, very) non-morning person, it sure has me feeling some love for those early morning rays!

Oh who am I kidding, just makes me want to stay up late so that I too can go...

Good mornin',
Good mornin'!
We've talked the whole night through,
Good mornin'
Good mornin' to you.
Good mornin', good mornin'!
It's great to stay up late,
Good mornin', good mornin' to you.
When the band began to play
The stars were shinin' bright.
Now the milkman's on his way,
It's too late to say goodnight.





“ As a matter of fact I rather feel like expressing myself now and I could certainly use a release” said Audrey Hepburn famously before bursting into this lil' number! Can you see anyone else doing that? Sheer brilliant cookie'ness!

Time to draw the blinds, turn some music on and proceed to make an ass of myself. Please excuse. I too could certainly use a release.

And after that, a stiff, dry Martini.



Thank God for You Tube!

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

When You Are Still Awake At 3 AM



Well now, it's three o'clock in the morning
And I can't even close my eyes.
Three o'clock in the morning
And I can't even close my eyes.
Can't find my baby
And I can't be satisfied.


It really is 3 am as I listen to this song. Sigh. Irony.

Oh, how I heart this song.

Its a song that reminds me of sleepless nights, heartaches, smoky rooms and half-filled glasses.

It also reminds me of spaces that are intimate and personal and of things that are only to be discussed in hushed tones.

You've got to love the blues.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Over Gin And Tonic

I have been fortunate enough to have lived in many cities, having studied in even more schools and having had the opportunity to call many streets, neighborhoods, addresses and zip codes home. And unlike most who have moved a lot, who often get thrown for a loop when asked where they are from, I never did. When asked, I always say ‘Delhi’. Not ‘originally from Andhra but lived all over’, just a plaintive ‘Delhi’.

I don’t think any city has more to do with who I am than this one. For me, it was a city of many firsts. My first boy friend, my first very own drama post-break up, my first kiss, my first smoke, my first drink and my first real best friend.

A city rife with many contradictions, of grandeur that screams itself hoarse from rooftops and the unexpected grace that comes from vestiges of ancient times, of dignity in beaten down ruins. A city laden with character.

Autos that proudly proclaim, ‘haan yeh road mere baap ki hai’ or dhabas that proudly declare ‘lassi aur email, aur ki chaheeda’, ‘free wi fi hai ji’.

It’s a city that right away stakes its claim. Or you, yours on it. One can’t help but get caught up, and not calling it ‘home’ is unimaginable.

Whether it was those competitions like ‘Mr. and Ms. High school’ and ‘Cornucopia’ or the rivalry between Modern and D.P.S. Bunking school to go to PVR or in the later years meet up at TC for a drink. There always was an Oasis, Djinns, Mirage, or Someplace Else to go to... now only to be replaced by their swankier, hipper alter egos.

There were the great dosas at Sagar’s in Def Col, shopping for imported stuff at GK, shady but dirt cheap drinking joints in CP, shopping for export surpluses and rejects at Sarojini Nagar and hot chocolate fudge at Nirulas. There was 'Flavors'. There was Haus Khas, Santushti, later MG1 and MG2, now only to be replaced by Crescent Court and DLF Emporio. The silver stores in Paharganj and a million places to grab a bite. Coffee at CafĂ© Turtle in Khan Market.

All so Delhi.

A city of brusque Jats and garrulous Sardars. And all the Telugu and Tamilian folks in Munirka and R.K Puram. Of early morning walkers in the colony and laughter clubs in the park. Of the retired army types walking their dogs and the kids who grew up much too fast.

All so very Delhi.

Mostly I have this one very early memory of Delhi. This one winter evening my parents were having a party in our rather small Vasant Kunj DDA flat. Scotch was poured in crystal decanters and hors d'oeuvres were catered. Ghulam Ali played in the background and my sister and I were banished to our room. Expectedly, being curious, we’d repeatedly sneak out to see what was happening. I vividly recall the adults sitting around, the women in their silks, the men in their kurtas, the dress de rigueur those days, the conversation ranging from movies, politics, music, and crime to bathroom humor. Told with the choicest words. Even for my world-weary all of sixteen years I was awe struck with the hum of conversation over strains of music interspersed with clinks of ice in their glasses.

A moment when parents stopped being just parents.

A moment when as a precocious sixteen year old who could make a career out of being twenty one, right from the dark matte lipsticks and teetering in my mother’s heels or affecting a nonchalance over boys’ advances was reminded just how very young I was.

Realizing that’s who I wanted to be when I grew up. An adult.

And for that I love Delhi because for me it held the promise of adulthood.

Because as a city it is quick on laying its possessive claim on you. A city to which you either take an instant dislike or fall passionately in love with. But mostly because it lets you be, who you are today and whom you choose to be tomorrow.

Foggy winters, traffic infested evenings and curious by lanes.

Expletive spurting people. Old used bookstores, rickshaw rides in Old Delhi, a love for the theatre and the theatrical and unexpected surprises at the next turn.

All that which makes it home.

A place no matter how many more times I move will always be home. And when asked where I am from, will always first say, ‘Delhi’.

Sunday, December 07, 2008

A Life Consumed

Hate was something that rarely went unnoticed
(Not under its harshly whispered guises and certainly
Not in its verbose declarations from the metaphorical rooftops)
And always unquestioningly crowned as too strong a word
Not a virtue in this case you understand

It wasn’t something one did but a state that came upon oneself
(Much like a habit that long seems to have been forgotten
And is now only lived.)
A feeling so exclusive to the bearer, no burden seems as heavy
Or a romance as intimate

And those who claim to have been singed by being in its mere vicinity
Knowing of no such passion themselves only do so out of their
Own inadequacy to feel so grandiosely
And so days and nights are consumed in feeling so fastidiously hateful
Until when finally the fog lifts and its for all to see

The epitaph that reads
She loved. So she hated.
She hated. So she could love.
A message etched in stone so to speak.
Clearly a lesson learnt, a life consumed

And in its four letters a lifetime spelt.

Thursday, November 27, 2008

Of Rainy Dispositions- Part Deux

It’s been a day of incessant rain. One filled with many a ‘chai’ and twice abandoned crossword. Fraught with shot nerves over fragile resolve to not reach for a cigarette. And it holds. For now anyway.

Frustration over being homebound, the romance long worn out.

Tea has gone cold, patience has run dry and it only continues to pour.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Of Rainy Dispositions

Something about rainy days
And nights
The melancholy and doubt
Contradicting lethargy
That comes from contentment
Or discontent
A feeling as varied and unpredictable as
Intermittent rain
Makes me want to go home even though
I already am.

Friday, November 14, 2008

Rejoice

"I've been thinking Hobbes..."
"On a weekend?"
"Well it wasn't on purpose..."

- Calvin & Hobbes

-------

The follies of the week have passed, and now onto the vegetative state of being. Oh Friday, I succumb to thee.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Exclaim

It was surprises she loved. Those grand romantic
unexpected gestures. Those which at the opportune
moment could be shrugged off with practiced
non-chalance. But also be secretly smiled at,
even enjoy at some unguarded moment, having
first fortified with some misjudged humor
of course.

But she confused. Caught between perceived and
projected realities. Playing charades. She excelled
but no one else quite caught up. And so at the end
when she expected the waiting hoardes to scream
a gleeful and long drawn out 'surprise, surprise'
she found herself at the finish line all alone
Exclamation less.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

What, Its a Wednesday?

The weekend was all about indulgence... it was about spending time with the girls, about excessive drinking and binge eating... It was also about resolving to never get so excessive again that morning after when addled with the nastiest hangover! But as sure is a Monday to follow the weekend, resolves too are destined to meet a certain death.

Salut.

“I went on a diet, swore off drinking and heavy eating, and in fourteen days I lost two weeks”
- Joe E. Lewis

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

Champagne Wishes And Caviar Dreams

“When her guests were awash with champagne and with gin,
She was recklessly sober, as sharp as a pin.
An abstemious man would reel at her look,
As she rolled a bright eye and praised his last book.”

-William Plomer

Monday, November 10, 2008

Acts Of Love

They said they were consenting adults
Of legal age and sound mind

Ones who knew a gin ever naught mixed
With a bubbly of character less

For there is no sin like cheap champagne
And does not a conscientious act make

But what are two lovers to do
When the morality dissolves
With bubbles long gone in the long stemmed flute

So they shed their clothes
As their conscience claims its inhabitancy elsewhere
The clothes fall off as flimsy resolve often does

And lust is consummated
As a toast is raised to the now warmed sheets
As only a gin soaked glass can do!

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

In Motion




“There are always two people in every picture: the photographer and the viewer.”

-Ansel Adams

Wednesday, August 06, 2008

Sorry For The Interruption?

How does one get time on their side?
The treasures of mighty tide?
After decisions weighed
Faith tested, karmic battles waged
And absconding luck mutated.

But a fortune needs to be made
So they said, "Spin the wheel"
Ill luck goodbye bade
Changing destiny but assured
A guaranteed good deal.

But then the spotlight goes off
Drowning all in a pall
Of all that is reality
Only to come alight again
Reflecting off of cast away hopes.

Gloomy it may sound but isn't
That the owned truth
Time makes its inroads
The 'suits' are the fortune-tellers
Money is to be made
And splendor to be had.

And so, the genius of programming
Every commercial, interrupted viewing
Rings a cash register somewhere
And such you realize is life
Interrupted.
But commercial free.