The Latte Files

It's only been a week and, am not putting away my party hat just yet.

2012-01-07T04:00:00.000-06:00

Half-finished books. Pages filled with words half-formed. Tarts that once stood witness to flailing diets, their obituaries now written on discarded foil. Ashtrays that know once the night falls, they'll have company to keep.

Vows to say Love You more and make passionate declarations less, settle with the ice in the glass. Dusty scrapbooks and dustier images to resurrect. Along with rusty memories to only bite the dust. With scary, speedy efficiency.

Old ways, familiar patterns and white lies. Because in the end, it's all much too easy.

What Resolution? Here's to a garishly shiny, spanking new year. New Year!

And you thought I was only Grey.

2012-01-06T13:01:00.000-06:00

Who's afraid of a lil' color?!

Layovers. And The Stiff Drink One Needs.

2011-11-16T03:34:00.001-06:00

It was a tune he played often. Many times a day, and it always earned him the biggest tips.

She while racking up the miles and nursing a heartache, always looked forward to a delay. Hoping.

Between the coins in the tip-jar and loud announcements, it was easy to miss the star-crossed lovers. Forgiven even.

Stop. Don't you see it's Red?

2011-11-02T16:19:00.001-05:00

It took my turning Thirty (gulp) to finally try 'red lips'. Try I did, and how. There's just been no looking back since.

Having always pined for a different time (you know I've always had a thing for Fifties-Sixties), I haven't exactly been immune to the allure, the charm of red lips, being that the women of the time sported the hue with just the right panache and studied nonchalance.

I love the coquettishness of it. The sexuality. That it can be gauche and vulgar. Sophisticated and timeless. That it means power and confidence. That it means being all Woman.

Not being one who was ever comfortable with too much attention (don't let my husband tell you otherwise), am certainly surprised how taken I am by the hue. Turning older definitely had something to do with it. Let's face it, we all turn into world-weary, world-wise women a lot sooner than what our parents ever gave us credit for. But the truth is, it took me all of three decades to become the woman I am today. And that woman sure isn't shy of red.

Forget the fact that it brightens up a dreary day or simply turns heads... The fact is, I like who I become when I wear it.

Kiss. Kiss.

Ply me with wine. But, romance me with words. Your words.

2011-10-27T00:36:00.000-05:00

Es un escándalo!

2011-10-12T01:58:00.000-05:00

I love a good dinner party. The smokers outside, conspiracy hanging heavy in the air. The hum of conversation reaching a quiet crescendo inside. Glasses half-full begging for refills as stories are re-told. The stoic clinking of ice building the backdrop to climax. The food adding spice to the romance, the dessert sealing the deal.

Ashtrays lie in wait, bearing witness to unfolding events. Discarded bottles ready to play enablers.

Sheets that come tomorrow will wink back knowingly.

You sigh a little. You drink a little.

2011-10-10T23:58:00.000-05:00

I'll wait while you pour yourself a stiff one.

2011-10-07T01:28:00.000-05:00

Weekends ought to be started off right, don't you think?

But hers was a study in modesty.

2011-10-05T00:20:00.000-05:00

The smile began long before in her eyes
sanguinely making it's way downwards.
Fingers curled slightly in anticipation of
the tingle she was to cause.
Drawing her shawl even closer
she knew to quickly look away.

When I was gone, did you whistle a tune?

2011-10-04T16:55:00.002-05:00

I've been a Bad Girl. Not in an exciting wink, wink way, just in a terribly lazy, been watching way too many Law and Order SVUs kinda way. I tell myself I need to blog, much like how I tell myself to stay off of Chocolate, but I seem to not make much headway with either.

There's so much I want to say but sometimes words just take longer to come, if they ever do. Other times, Bravo happens. Hello, Real Housewives?!!

But I promise to be better. I'll even go and sharpen my pencils. Maybe even buy some new stationary... What, it'll only take a minute!

The Blues, they sing to me.

2011-08-04T01:29:00.000-05:00

Cue song? Okay. How Blue Can You Get?

William Christopher Handy: The blues - the sound of a sinner on revival day.

“Close you eyes and tap your heels together three times. And think to yourself, there's no place like home.”

2011-07-28T03:27:00.000-05:00

Happy Hour

2011-07-21T05:20:00.004-05:00

Crossover episodes I'd like to see: Hollywood Squares and X-Files. Cheers and Law and Order SVU. Walker, Texas Ranger and Gossip Girl.

Walker, Texas Ranger and Gossip Girl. Yup, I went there. Walker and Waldorf... Epic.

One mustn't lose their Muchness. Ever.

2011-07-20T23:54:00.000-05:00

"You used to be much more..."muchier." You've lost your muchness. " says the Mad Hatter to Alice.

P.S: You want me to find another book to get obsessed with, don't you? I know what you are thinking!

P.P.S: I must share with you this other obsession of mine... Murakami's After Dark. One of these days, I promise.

Sometimes, the sharpest of angles and the straightest of lines, cast the softest of glows. Shadows by which, many stories are told.

2011-07-16T17:06:00.002-05:00

The hare-brained chatter of irresponsible frivolity.

2011-07-15T17:46:00.011-05:00

Art, in all of it's forms, is an altogether funny thing.

I've had this painting for a while now... I love it for it's colors and the joy it seems to exude. I've always thought of it as fishes swimming upstream until a friend pointed out it's likeness to, well, you know. And, there's no getting past that. Did I then relegate it to some dark corner of my house? No sirrie, I promptly fell even more in love with it.

People's reaction to this painting (that hangs in my house) is quite priceless... Most don't give it much thought beyond it's cheery colors. Some mortified, quickly look away. Others, after a start, smile. It (the painting) certainly makes me smile, I mean, how can it not? As for the Sperm dress (see below), I happen to love it. The dress reminds me of the painting and... Makes me, you guessed it, smile.

Oh, I do realize just about now I sound like a dithering idiot who goes about all of her day with a grin plastered on her face. Not so. Mostly. Er. No, not so.

P.S: The title, borrowed from Disraeli. Also, the words 'irresponsible frivolity' somehow make me think of tulle skirts, cotton candy and manicures. Don't ask.

Kallol Datta Sperm Dress

Satchmo is all kinds of Cool. End of a song, beginning of a story.

2011-06-08T11:48:00.004-05:00

(Yup, I recently watched High Society. Again. It had been a while since I saw it last and had forgotten just how much I love this movie. Bing, Sinatra and Armstrong. Grace Kelly too. So many reasons.)

You're being charming, reasonable and very boyish. Unless you've changed, that means you're about to drink someone's blood. Probably mine.**

2011-06-07T19:00:00.003-05:00

Black-and-white movies. And bottled effervescence. I love it all with a bit of grey.

** The title's from the 1948 Bette Davis movie, June Bride. Love the movie. Love Bette.

But mostly, I flutter.

2011-05-20T19:15:00.002-05:00

Helen

The Birds

Fall 2011 Runways

Top Row, L To R: Giambattista Valli, Jason Wu, Yigal Azrouël, Naeem Khan

Second Row, L To R: Oscar De La Renta, Prabal Gurung, Monique Lhuillier, Emilio Pucci

Photo Credit: OneIndia, Rediff, IMDB, Style.Com
Cross posted on highheelconfidential.com

At times, they bloom in unlikely places. At times, they tease. She likes to hide, while they seek.

2011-05-10T17:41:00.003-05:00

I get all nostalgic because am easy that way.

2011-04-13T01:34:00.003-05:00

Saw vintage Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers videos on tv today. You know what that means, don't you? We need to have ourselves some Jolene!

There was this phase when we (and for once I don't mean the royal I) took to loudly singing along the songs of the moment, which included these two gems. Usually at a sleepover. If you however imagined a bunch of girls bursting into song on a random sidewalk, I don't blame you. Also, yes, I said gems. Am old like that! Can't you tell?

We used to broadly refer to these songs (and not just these two mind you) as "Retro" and, feel rather proud of our varied and discerning taste. Precious! Funny how we quickly transitioned from well-meaning poseurs to actually enjoying the music we were claiming to love. Wasn't that just yesterday?

So tell me, how old is too old for a sleepover? (Assuming one is not Michael Jackson. What, too soon?)

Night's been short, the day much too long. I'll remember to wave as I pass you by.

2011-04-12T23:57:00.006-05:00

Because I obsess. And am feeling a bit like Alice.

2011-04-07T02:30:00.000-05:00

Alice: I wonder if I've been changed in the night? Let me think. Was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I'm not the same, the next question is 'Who in the world am I?' Ah, that's the great puzzle!

Alice in Wonderland. Love. I could make a blog post out of almost every line... But that slobbering ode is best saved for another time!

An Old Favorite On The Radio

2011-04-06T00:01:00.000-05:00

The first note, has her ready to hum

She turns up the music

When she feels that way

With the softest sigh

She waits for night to fall

Pillow fluffed in anticipation

So she can dream that dream again

So she can kiss and never have to tell.

Am thinking of magpies today. And Disco. And cupcakes with sprinkles.

2011-04-05T21:51:00.000-05:00

If the Candy Man could, he'd kiss these puckered lips.

2011-03-29T22:38:00.003-05:00

This Girly-Girl's gone Rogue.

Am obsessed with YSL's Beaute Rouge Pur Couture Le Fuchsia. Totally badass.
When it's Fuchsia, you've got to respect the Pink! It's like candy, Joan Jett would approve of.

P.S: You know am thinking of Candy Man.

Flights Of Fancy

2011-02-03T11:12:00.001-06:00

The Latte Files

2011-01-18T13:12:00.001-06:00

No matter the time zone, the insomniac will find an hour
to claim his own. A ticking clock his willing accomplice,
the still fluffed pillow a voyeur. And the room alert
and expectant, like a sold-out theatre.
It's curtains still tautly drawn.

Overheard Today...

2011-01-13T14:44:00.000-06:00

Did you hear about the man who ran over himself?

No? Well, he told his wife to run over and get him a pack of cigarettes, she said "No!"
So, he ran over himself.

Don't ask me why this is cracking me up so much! Maybe, you had to be there?

Music Lies In The Day Lies In The Romance Lies In The Night

2011-01-12T14:23:00.002-06:00

It was that kind of morning. Slightly nippy, hinting at a promise of romance. And cups of tea that could be had, fueling both imagination and resolve. Hungover from dreams past.

And I kind of woke up with this tune in my head. Endearing and familiar.

I think of Susheela as I listen. Perhaps more of the song than the singer.

The day turns out to be uneventful, perhaps best that it's charm lie in the mundane. Comforting. The tune though stays in my head, perhaps as a reminder that tomorrow is going to be more of the same?

Thinking once more of Ms. Raman (the formality seems appropriate), the song more than the singer, I turn off the lights... Not knowing what day lies ahead but, aware what I will be waking up with.

Over at the bar, he goes simply by "Chandini".

2011-01-04T06:39:00.000-06:00

Kitten heels, the cat's whiskers.

2011-01-03T12:25:00.004-06:00

Counting Sheep

2010-10-07T02:36:00.005-05:00

Such were oppressive nights, seemingly laden down

with humid smokey haze of love lorn eyes.

Elsewhere, heavy with thought and drink

featherweight pillows cradle a lover courting sleep.

Homecoming

2010-04-06T03:18:00.008-05:00

The city felt haunted, the street like a lingering piano riff

tapering off with a melancholic melody

There was an abandoned newspaper on the road

but she didn't mind, the theme was becoming,

yesterday's news still had a nice ring to it.

She looked out for that house, one that stood unimposing

in a street lined with handsome suitors

her eyes drawn to the desolate cracked concrete

which with it's dying creepers on the walls

wailed another story of another time.

Her eyes gleamed as she willed her heart to be still

longing to rip off the garish sale sign

that stood like a coquettish prostitute in the blistering heat.

The creaky door that was to shelter them from the humid day

made it's compliance rather loudly known with a conspiratorial groan.

She knew she was home and it begged to be celebrated

and even as he toasted the news with champagne and doubt

she drank with unflinching gulps the bitter homecoming

And with heady optimism and bubbly that long fell flat,

she longed to retell a story in a city of ex-lovers.

Captured In The Kitchen

2010-04-01T01:34:00.001-05:00

What Happy Hours Are Made Of!

2010-03-08T02:00:00.001-06:00

Much To Be Told. Little To Be Said.

2009-10-01T03:27:00.016-05:00

And, as that very song plays in the background...

Turn down the lights, pour me some champagne.

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

The Proposal

2009-09-10T00:56:00.010-05:00

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'.

Dillema

2009-07-11T12:36:00.001-05:00

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

Answers

2009-06-28T00:27:00.004-05:00

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.

Questions

2009-06-27T00:23:00.002-05:00

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

She Is A Woman, She Sighs When It Rains

2009-06-26T23:56:00.009-05:00

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.

Scotch. Neat And Succored.

2009-06-19T02:36:00.003-05:00

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.

In A Musical Sort Of Mood

2009-06-11T02:00:00.008-05:00

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!

When You Are Still Awake At 3 AM

2009-04-28T03:03:00.007-05:00

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.

Over Gin And Tonic

2008-12-10T11:45:00.006-06:00

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 Café 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’.

A Life Consumed

2008-12-07T11:59:00.005-06:00

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.

Of Rainy Dispositions- Part Deux

2008-11-27T04:12:00.002-06:00

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.

Of Rainy Dispositions

2008-11-25T08:25:00.004-06:00

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.

Rejoice

2008-11-14T13:07:00.000-06:00

"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.

Exclaim

2008-11-13T04:15:00.003-06:00

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.

What, Its a Wednesday?

2008-11-12T04:00:00.001-06:00

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

Champagne Wishes And Caviar Dreams

2008-11-11T02:08:00.003-06:00

“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

Acts Of Love

2008-11-10T23:32:00.002-06:00

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!

In Motion

2008-08-12T18:07:00.011-05:00

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

-Ansel Adams

Sorry For The Interruption?

2008-08-06T01:30:00.007-05:00

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.

Of The Man In The Lighthouse

2008-07-18T11:44:00.000-05:00

The man in the lighthouse
Stood in mute testament, which now may
be attributed to being passive aggressive
Isn’t that after all what a lighthouse do?
Stand resolute to the forces of nature
Which of course goes not unaccounted
Fate he calls it, after all
A tempestuous storm may only
Be a deliverance of karma he says.

Fear of weather is for those with roots
With land under their feet and those
With the fear of being uprooted
He lived with no such illusions
And if he did, he timed them to the tides
The rise and pull was temperamental enough
Then there was the famed moonlight
For the man in the lighthouse
It was hard to separate the man from the lighthouse.

He did step out, out onto the shores
Sustenance was an inconvenience
To be dealt with periodically
Just the way the lulls had to be tolerated before the
Drama of a storm unfolded.
Patience is a virtue to be cultivated
Skill at solitaire came with it
As did imagination laced with fortitude.

So between glasses of tea and
An aging deck of cards for company
He looked out for ships that long since
Stopped to pass, picking out shapes in mist
Conjuring characters central to plot
Watching for the perfect storm
The man in the lighthouse every night
Lit the beacon, sounded the gong
And perfected his game of solitaire.

The Party

2008-06-02T18:16:00.002-05:00

Its been a few hours now, the crowds have left, the scented candles long blown out, now a mere whiff remains, a suggestion of the scent and of those people who were here just a while ago. A suggestion remains of the wine they had, cigarettes they smoked and if you listened long and hard enough, even snatches of their conversations still stayed in play, etched as if in the very fiber of those walls.

Amrita reached over to open the windows; the smells were getting stifling, more dangerous than the swarms of flies she knew that would soon descend. The fan was on high, its rusted hinges, a source of comfort. There was a faint breeze outside, the leaves moved just a bit and if you hadn’t caught the furtive motion, there was no other way to know that it was even there in the first place. Sort of like hiding and seeking, one that she was increasingly becoming familiar with.

With a sigh as long as time itself she straightened up to begin tackling the cleaning up. There is something perverse about the contrasts just at the end of a party; the air falls silent as if too got tired after the evening’s excitement. The lipstick marked glasses remain in testament to things that were said or almost were. Depends on the glass in question. Ashtrays of course had their own stories too, but like the butt, all signs of life were now gone. All that remained was that stale air. And bits of nibbled cheese. And a spot on the rug that no one wanted to own up to and one that she just noticed.

She began to pick up the bottles and started emptying the ashtrays into a big plastic bag to leave outside the door for the bai to pick up in the morning. She wondered what Mary would think when she sees all the alcohol bottles and cigarettes. Her lips would curl in displeasure for sure but would soon be replaced by a gleeful grin as she’d realize the stuff she’d have to tell Mrs. Kumaran living on the floor directly below.

Amrita being single and having regularly entertained every weekend for the last few months well late into night, sure meant she was talked about a little. A lot if her own bai, has anything to say about it! As she is sure to remind her everyday and chide her, "Amma its time you found a nice boy. You are marriageable now and if the fruit gets over ripened and falls off of the tree even birds won’t eat it”. And then she would ominously add, “Only rats will eat. Is that what you want? A rat boy?” and thinking it came out too harsh would quickly add, “you are so nice Amma and people thinking wrong things, find no Amma, a nice boy…” and would walk off into another room to dust, to rub off some of its unseemliness, that she thought could only come from girls like her. Thirty six, single and living alone.

It was with that morbidly hilarious analogy on her mind that she continued onto her room to finally change, wash off the make-up, and call it a night. The final vestiges of the party cleared. And the proverbial slate clean for another day, and another night. And to a whole new year to follow tomorrow.

The Imagined Secret

2008-05-23T01:49:00.012-05:00

What is it about secrets?
That give a woman her power
That no stiletto can. Or red lips.
The ones that add an extra shimmer
to the eye. Or to the beginnings
of an elusive smile. A lazy wink.
A long drag on a cigarette
Or the extra clink of ice in
the now almost empty glass.
Secrets that are harmless as
long as unknown. Harmless
if come to be known.
As long as the knowledge
lies within the woman in
question, she thrives.
Almost as if secrets
and her go together.
Even made up ones.

After all,
intrigue takes imagination.

An Unexpected Muse

2008-05-22T23:59:00.001-05:00

Thunder. Incessant rain
The day started with chai
Adrak adding the spiced nuance of course
For the tired palette
But now, its way into the night
Thunder still makes its
Presence felt and rain
Refuses to let up
Its onto gin and tonics now
The plural being affirmative
And as rain pelts forgotten
Morse code upon your window
Stories come pouring out
And you thought nature had
A whole other agenda.
And you might be right.
When with the torrential downpour
All it looked for
Was the drying of ink
On a wet, wet day.

As with any other story
Is it not a question of
Mere perspective?
Of seeking the ever
Unexpected muse.

Night With The Girls. And Bowls. Of Fishes.

2008-04-17T00:43:00.006-05:00

You had to have a birds’ eye view to see
the glass bowls were many, each with
its own gold fish, each looking out on the other.
Perspective weighed down by weightlessness, the
proverbial greener grass looking clean as water. Or smoky
as water, it was that perspective thing again. So each felt
stared down by the other, and others caught up in their own
swirling waters.

Bowls that liven up a lonely woman’s life, bowls that hold another’s attention when nothing else does,
bowls that act as a muse to one
and bowls that are mere accessories in the
grand scheme compared to none.
But who was looking in on who? Confidence building on others’
secrets, bonds fortified over liquid promises of the alcohol kind, they
too in their own glass bowls.

Call it dinner with the girls, or a far more fashionable girls night
out, but its that perspective thing again,
when the stillness of the night
could only be compared to the quivering urgency of a
fish out of water.

Cityscapes

2008-04-15T00:08:00.004-05:00

It could be any city and any view
but it is this city and this view
the rain has let up
a bit finally today
the light comes on
the penthouse across
not enough to tell much
the rain hasn't let up that much
but there is a faint glow
and a silhouette
a flickering ember which can only be
a cigarette
you imagine a high ball glass
along with gin and tonic
and spin a story
its a climax you are looking for
but you have your
own stub to put out
and head back to the party
across, another stub has been put out
but not before successfully
charting a climax
Rains. Parties. And Cigarettes.

Of An Unacknowledged Muse

2008-04-11T00:13:00.001-05:00

She had that voice
jazz'ey and smokey
full of life like its never been lived
more Ella than Aretha
except that she didn't sing
she told stories
recited more like it
a muse you could call
but she was real
except when you saw her
there was Chet Baker in the background
or for the purists, Duke Ellington
she reminded one of a classic martini
not the fruity excuse
of an overture
of a classic rendition
of any red-blooded woman
of passion
and only as the dawn breaks
or as the night darkens
you see her for what she is
a bit of you
you could call her a muse
I prefer dreaming up her story.

Paradoxically

2008-04-10T11:56:00.000-05:00

What is faith?
When someone says
What is true
Is it faith to believe it
After all a precedent has never been set
When does it change to trust
And who do we have faith in
Trust needs to be earned
But what has faith done for itself
Oh I have faith
This is no despondent melancholic rant
But when reality plays
Summersaults with circumstance
Faith needs to stay
Stock-still and in place
That’s when dilemma
Makes its entrance
As does irony
When is faith enough?
Fate has its own
Answers, I trust.

Loving Sinatra

2008-04-09T18:53:00.002-05:00

Sinatra sings about world on a string
on an old LP, a rare live recording
a performance just for you
there is Scotch on the rocks
a smokey Jazz club
you finally get it
there is that string in question
all around your fingers
If only you could be in that world
of checkered floors
abandoned rituals of swing
dancing
the wooing of black and white movies
but wait, you are.
Sinatra. Scotch. A rainy afternoon.
Gable thrown in for good measure.
and all of the world on a string
for you to pull.

Two: Of Crisp White Sheets. And Wine.

2008-03-01T15:51:00.005-06:00

The movie they saw, the rolling credits
reflected upon, the flickering light playing games
of catch me if you can, on their now
empty wine glasses, waiting to make their way
back. Like the inevitable end, their love affair too
had to fizzle, wishful holidays, dreamscapes often
short-lived. The glass refilled, the wine swirled in the glass,
breathing, livening its soul, more alive than them. Even
it cannot resurrect what was always dead. Perhaps incorrect,
what never got a chance to come alive. Beginning and end. As
it usually is when expiration dates have been set.
And intoxicated passion dictates drunken love.
Its proof in the crisp cold of white sheets.
As only hotels cloaked in anonymity can be. The history starched
clean and the creases waiting to be marked again. The ashtray
waiting to be stories told, the walls swearing to eternal secrecy.
At that anonymous time, place and a hotel, two worlds separated
by unmoving walls concrete, connected by only
crisp white sheets in each.

One: Of Crisp White Sheets. And Wine.

2008-02-12T00:46:00.000-06:00

Old movies do that to you
In all of their black and white glory
They couldn't tell a grey'er story
Or invoke a more multi-color dream
Dream, not an event real
Separation, necessary
Many a (mis)consequence averted
And in those monochromatic, multi-reel
Grey tinted frames, snowy films
Lie the true romances
Of wine tinted afternoons
And legs entangled in crisp white sheets
Reality stays rolling credits away
And until then, the critics at bay
Wine is full-bodied, afternoons passionate
The sheets crisp
White, subjective.

Raw Mangoes. Perfection. Bittersweet Fates.

2008-01-10T03:14:00.001-06:00

Nagalakshmi pined for a male child, the heir, the one to carry on the name of the family, one when asked for his name would proudly proclaim Venkateshwara Muralidhara Balagangadhar Rao, invoking the gods and forefathers alike.

She continued to chew on the raw mango piece, generously sprinkled with salt and chilli powder as she swung in the late afternoon sun. The patio had a newly installed fan, a thing of much pride in the neighborhood, and so hot afternoons became a little more bearable, in part to the fan but mostly due to the envy it generated.

She shooed away the flies with her fat arms as the pale flesh glistened with sweat as only those with afforded luxuries could. In her case, two of those were the fan and Venkaiah. The former you have been introduced to, the latter was a skinny, dark, brooding, man Friday at her service. The help around the house if you will. ‘Servant’ is what she would have preferred I use to describe him. A woman of strong preferences she was.

Today like most afternoons there wasn’t any electricity and so she sat on the swing fanning herself, and Venkaiah sat on the floor, at a safe distance from her swinging feet, peeling vegetables for dinner. Every once in a while you would hear the swing creak perhaps owing to the weight upon it. Or you would hear Venkaiah grunt, making his displeasure known to a particularly stubborn patch of skin while peeling. But otherwise the harsh sun seemed to have smothered all signs of life.

With every sway forward on the swing, she’d check Venkaiah’s progress. Tonight for dinner, among other things there was going to be 'bangaladumpa vepudu' and it drove her nuts when pieces of potato weren’t all uniformly chopped and were more or less of the same size. Many a dog in that neighborhood had developed an appetite for skewed vepudu and sambhar with unequal lengths of mullakada pieces. A stickler for recipes, proportions, rituals and rules, she wasn’t called to oversee preparations of weddings and pujas for nothing.

It’s hard to say though if she was always like this or if it was a thing of ‘overnight’, a virtue accorded to many these days. Perhaps it would be safer to say that it might have started with her pregnancy. It began with eating right, food that she supervised meticulously to her satisfaction. It could have begun with her overseeing her good health. It could have begun with her never shying away from ghee, how else would the baby get its complexion? It could have begun with the numerous pujas that became an everyday affair in this non-Brahmin household for the future of the yet unborn baby. Her biggest unspoken fear was of bearing a daughter. So she prayed every morning to every god that she remotely recognized. But we digress. This is by no means to diagnose but only to bring before you the possibility that perhaps her pathological idiosyncrasies might have stemmed from her pregnancy.

Most afternoons, like today, she just spent on the swing till Chinnu came home from school. There wasn’t much else to do in the town anyway. So this was a time she used to make lists. And plans. For everyday. And a separate one for Venkaiah, for the things he had to do. She firmly believed they needed to be kept in place and everyone had theirs.

The gate creaked open and Chinnu came up the garden yelling, “Amma”, “Amma”. The running reduced to a strange waddling due to a very heavy school bag, yet fast enough for her pigtails to sway rhythmically side to side. Asking Venkaiah to get tiffin and milk for Chinnu and coffee for herself, Nagalakshmi got off the swing ready to oversee what remained of the day. Asking how her day was, she reached for Chinnu’s bag and as they went in a look of mild irritation came upon her face. Very fleeting but if you were looking for it, unmistakable.

Just then Venkaiah came upto her and reported that he finished all that she had asked him to and was leaving for the day. Before she could even begin to complain he reminded her he had a family too, a wife and 2 children. Two sons. And as he reminded her, this look came upon his face, a smile so fleeting, you’d miss if you weren’t waiting for it. But she was. She saw it, dismissed him with the faintest of nods and went in to oversee the homework.

Being a perfectionist she couldn’t bear to be a bad mother. But, being a perfectionist she couldn’t ignore her failed attempt at conceiving a son.

A Page From A Stranger's Moleskine

2008-01-10T02:04:00.000-06:00

Its a storytellers' spiralling staircase. A spiralled muse where a plot lies just a twist away. The rust that adds mirth of an old wives' tale, the yellow some of its joie de vivre. The plant yearning to bloom, its shade kept aside for another storyteller's toil.

Secrets

2008-01-09T04:39:00.000-06:00

I have a secret, you said and you smiled
Unleashing at once the desire to uncover, and the need to forget
You might have been teasing, for the lazy wink that accompanied stood in mute testament.

But you see, I know a little something about secrets
And while a luxury it may be to divulge
Far easier it be to drape a cloak of romanticism and bury deeper.

I have a secret, you said and you smiled.
I know. And with a smile of my own, I add, so have I.

Inspired

2008-01-08T04:40:00.004-06:00

The sinewy smile on the model stretched out on the cover.
The groove belted out by the jazz percussionist.
The side step danced by the pop-starlet.
The freeze-frame executed by an acclaimed director.

Paintings of Dali. Prints of Warhol.
Thoughts of Kafka. Ideas of Nietzsche.
Murder mysteries. Epic romances. Existential philosophy.
Perfect chocolate mousse. Caramelized sugar of a crème brulee.

The heroine’s laugh. The hero’s crusade.
The tyrant’s oppression. The vamp’s objective.
Old wives’ tale. Vivid snatches of forgotten memory.
Old yearbooks. Scratched photographs.

Borrowed stories. Re-invented imagination.
Rain. Breeze. Elements. Awakened desires.
Healing wounds. Brimming joys. Confused temperaments.
Armchair confidentialities. Brash betrayed confidences.

Whiff of a perfume. Glimpse of a reflection. Overheard conversation.
Smell of coffee. Swirl of smoke. Many hues of red in a glass of wine.
Endless doodles. Growing pile of crumpled paper. Colors, tints.
Flicker of a flame. Endless chai. Obscure wit. Slapstick sequence.

High fashion. Low morale. Sexists. Feminists. Idealists.
Surrealism. Realism. Individualism. Scrapbook pedantism.
The off-beaten path. The oft-repeated track. Old and new.
Caricatures of reality. Daydreams of future.

Where haven’t I looked for inspiration!?!!

The Absolute

2008-01-07T04:43:00.001-06:00

The beginning of an end or the end of very beginning?
The threat to what has been or a promise of things to come?
The last note of the song you loved or the last chapter of the book that you read?
The sunshine after the rain or the rain that poured all day?
The color from the palette of an artist or the blindness of the artist to see the color?
The End.

The tears shed when it is finally over or the tears still shed over what is and not over?
The smile that can light up the sky or the smile that never quite reaches the eyes?
The right in the wrong or the wrong for all its righteousness?
The sky is the limit or the sky is falling?
The brittle joy or the seemingly constant pain?
The End.

The dream you wake up with or the dream that you long for once when you asleep?
The unpredictability in everything mundane or the predictability of everything unpredictable?
The wit mistaken for humor or sarcasm for irony?
The pain, hurt, shame or guilt?
The cup of tea after a long day or the cup of coffee starting it all off?
The End.

The evening news or the morning newspaper?
The email or that telephone call?
The voices in your head or the voices all around?
The seeds of imagination or the roots of reality?
The benefit of doubt or just plain conviction?
The End.

Nothing but that is after all, Absolute.

A Reluctant Secret

2008-01-06T04:41:00.000-06:00

Popping a mint, I reluctantly stood, straightening my ‘Counselor’ badge. The trip to salvation had begun, especially, since the house of cards I built was collapsing under the lies I layered on. Facing the imminent truth is far worse than eminent addiction. But that comes later!

“I am Ria and am an alcoholic.”
“Hi Ria!

Nuance

2008-01-05T04:44:00.000-06:00

Smile he said, smile she did
Until he brought the tear with him
But smile she did still
For sometimes, the pain of the tiniest prick mesmerizes
Mimicking the rush of excitement
The subtelity quite unnoticed
But smile she still does, for the choice she made was hers
Until the pain cascaded into something unreal
All that remained : A gleaming smile accompanied by vacant eyes
When subtle nuance contradicts imagined realities.

Does She? Doesn't She?

2008-01-04T04:45:00.000-06:00

He didn’t like her saying she loved him. It made her look weak. And it embarrassed him. He enjoyed the chase. So instead, he said, “I love you” and she said, “me too”.
Until one day, she forgot to say the words. He went on, not knowing what he missed.
If only he saw the notebook with its pages filled, and, lines crossed out, and, convictions appraised with, “I love him”, “I love him not”.

Stripped Down

2008-01-03T04:46:00.000-06:00

He: I just don’t get it..

She: Oh please, not this again! Lets not start with this all over again! Can’t we go even an hour without you bringing this up?

He: Are you kidding? Of course I am going to bring this up! I just don’t see why you are still married to the guy…. Why don’t you just leave?

She: Because I don’t have a good enough reason to leave.

He: Good enough reason? Lack of passion is not a good enough reason? Barely-there intimacy is not a good enough reason?

She: Well, we are so good together. And he treats me so well. Besides, we are great friends, we can say what we want, do what we want, we just “get” each other, you know what I mean?

He: No, I don’t know what you mean! Hell no. We are great friends too but that doesn’t mean….

She: I know. I know. But for a marriage to work in the long run, it needs more than passion you know! Trust, respect, commitment, value for personal space, even being friends is what ultimately solidifies a relationship! And anyway, few years down the line, which marriage has that passion?

He: In case you forgot, you’ve been married a year, not for twenty…

She: Look, I don’t think he means for it to happen, am pretty sure it’s not intentional.. There’s all that work that’s been crazy for him…. Or maybe we are just majorly mismatched….
(A feeble laugh)

He: Geez! Give me a break here, will you? I know you are trying convince yourself more than trying to convince me..

She: Its not like we don’t make love at all you know..

He: Yeah, like once a month? He made it more than clear to you that he just wasn’t attracted to you the very day he got married to you! And anyway, in this day and age, THAT is a good enough reason to walk out you know! What are you afraid of? I just don’t get women like you…. You are smart, educated, beautiful and yet you take this subtle abuse….Why?

She: Stop it! Enough!

He: You know what? I’ve had enough of this too! Am done.
(Says angrily)

He then gets out of the bed, flinging the sheets aside angrily and reaches over for his hastily discarded clothes from last night.
She, with tears in her eyes, puts her wedding ring back on.

Second Chances

2008-01-02T04:47:00.001-06:00

The post-it said, Begin Now. Many of the reminders
you have around, telling yourself to move on.
The edge of the note fluttering, a subtle reminder, telling you that
its over.

Another post-it that says it was a long time ago.
Stuck on the screen, it said, Love You Honey! That now
says, it doesn’t matter anyway! You tell yourself to move on.
Because you have to.

Because everything else has. Because time has that essence.
It holds you in its grasp yet effortlessly flows through the
now cracking stucco of memories. Except,
you hardly see that.

Caught in a bubble, unable to look out. You wonder,
how a time that weighs so heavily on you,
can be so weightless. Caught in a bubble,
unable to look out.

They see you as they look in. And unable to see what
you don’t. And soon they give up too. And you even more
fervently wish for a time long gone. If only to move on
from that point on.

Running your finger across the edge of the note its
yellow seeming like aging memory. You wonder how long
it’ll be before it comes unglued unraveling hope to second chances,
knowing finally it’s not to be.

Mist Of Surrender

2008-01-01T04:48:00.000-06:00

Swung by wind were the delicate leaves
Like a ballerina on her toes
Ethereal in her grace and divine in her charm
As were the unfurling wings in my dream
Blazing sun on concrete harsh
Intimidated clouds rushed into hiding
Nothing matched the passion unfolding
It was the revelation of darkest desire
With nothing to quell or even enrage, not water nor fire
What started mellow, stumbled upon a storm
Of passion so blinding, bold, searing and stark
Mist of epic proportions, still desire so dark
Mist of sweet surrender surround all of me
I catch my breath and reach for that once again delicate but still leaf.

Caught In Time ( An Awkward Blend Of Whimsy And Poetry)

2007-12-15T04:56:00.000-06:00

I dream, I dream of walk through the clouds, of tranquility of mind, of love in the heart, of flight into the dusk, of sunrise when the sun never even set. I dream, I dream of when I waltzed with you, of when you sang to me, of dinner by the candle glow, of walks by the sea, of love lost, found, lost and hoping to find again.

I dream, I dream of the option I never chose, of the chance I never took, of the wrongs I could make right, of the person I want to be, of the person I almost am, of what it all means to me, of what I am to you. So what if they call me a dreamer? I dream.

My every dream takes me closer to the reality I see. My every dream makes my everyday seem so much fuller to me. And so what if they call me a dreamer? I dream.

My every dream makes you so much more believable. My every dream makes me more open to the truth. My every dream is mine to cherish. My memories are my dreams, sometimes, my dreams, my memories. And so what if they call me a dreamer? I dream.

I dream of a beautiful day today, the kind of day you way up looking forward to. The kind of day you know nothing can go wrong. You feel happy, warm and fuzzy, through and through. The kind of day, you see poetry in every sound and art in every passing cloud. The kind of day when you want to smile for nothing and everything. The kind of day when you want to stand on rooftops and yell and yet you don’t even find the need to say anything at all. And so what if they call me a dreamer? I dream.

A soft rustle of a breeze and a secret revealed, the first raindrops and cleansing of the soul. When color takes on a new meaning and life gets a new definition. The kind of day when the past and present and future all come together. When floodgates to memory open up the doorways to a hopeful future. And the kind of day when I miss you so much. Miss you in every thought, action and every abstract of life itself. When I think I hear you laugh, see you beginning to smile and imagine the feel of your touch. And I once again think, I miss you so much.

I know then, its but, just a dream. And I wake up.

Wouldn't She?

2007-12-14T04:56:00.000-06:00

A feeling lately none too unfamiliar, a longing strengthened
Her own pain throbbing like a pulsating sliver of gleaming light
Alive in its inanimate intensity
She trying to sell herself yet another story
Of a protagonist who ends the tale happy
Snared in the fine print of black on white
Naïve, she missed the words in shades of grey
If only all she had to do was click her heels and say
“ There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home”
Wouldn’t she wake up in her own bed tomorrow?

Caught up in lines, she forgot the universal truth
Escapism is mere make-believe, a glorious untruth.

All For A Brownie Smile

2007-12-13T04:54:00.000-06:00

It was a game she played as a kid. “What’s going on in his mind?” Always guessing, always laughing. Her laugh sounded like a couple of bells chiming together, but not harsh, more like a cascade of sounds. She was beautiful. Beautiful blonde hair, falling in beautiful curls. Beautiful blue eyes and a beautiful smile. I looked nothing like her. She was like one of those beautiful porcelain dolls and I was more like the rag dolls she played with. One saw her, and thought ‘beautiful’. She was like that. And I had to protect her. As soon as they saw her, they would crowd around and say ‘Oh! What an angel!’ ’How lucky you are to have a sister like that little Mikey’ or ‘such a delight, such a delight’ or ‘don’t you just love her?’ And I say,” Sure”. Everybody loved her. There was just no doubting that. She was always the fairy or the angel or the little princess in all the plays. Ma loved to dress her in little frocks made from leftover fabric. I complained once and Pa asked me to be a man, he said it was womanly to complain about my sister’s clothes. So, I never did after that day. Ma and Pa would look at her and share those smiles, I called them the ‘brownie smiles’, they were so sweet and chocolaty.

I have always hated brownies. But I loved my sister. Sure, it hurt that she always got to put the star on top of the Christmas tree or that she got the last piece of pie or that I was always supposed to look after her because she was the younger one. But most of the times I didn’t really mind. I knew she used to look up to me for everything and that used to make me feel real good. It was I being Pa. Sort of. Also, it was she who used to hold my hand while going to school and Mary-Ann thought it was so sweet. So I didn’t really mind. Honest.

+++

It started with a cough. And then blood. The cough was so loud. I would wake up in the middle of the night just by the sound of it. It was harsh and hollow, sort of like that ride we went on last year. Pa said it was dangerous to go on that cart. It was rusty and hadn’t been oiled and made a loud sound. Pa’s cough sounded just like that, rusty, loud and like it hadn’t been oiled in a long time.

After that, Pa could not even get out of the bed. I heard Mrs. Weimer whisper to Mrs. Johnson,” it’s the dreaded one”,” poor kids”. I wanted to know what was the dreaded one. Who was this dreaded one? No one told me. Not even a single person. I would ask and ask but they would just not tell me. I guess eleven-year-old kids aren’t supposed to eavesdrop, but I tried to listen in anyway. Once ma caught me and she burst into tears. She said I just would have to be the man of the house now. Why? But I knew this much, whenever ‘the dreaded one’ called, we were asked to go out and play! Who was this ‘dreaded one’? Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing after all. After all, we got extra hours to play, even after dark. Pa was beginning to spend an awful amount of time in his room and we weren’t allowed to see him. Ma too kept busy. A little too busy if you asked me. We had dry bread again for dinner last night. And some stale soup from Mrs. Johnson’s house. Doesn’t Ma care about us anymore? I sneaked a look into Pa’s room when no one was looking. He was sleeping. I don’t understand.

+++

It has been a while since that day. Things have changed. Our little garden is now full of weeds; I can’t pull some of them out no matter how hard I try. My beautiful mother now looks like that old gypsy woman selling balloons at the Rio festival. We never really went to Rio; it was just a carnival that came to our town at the beginning of last spring. I remember that gypsy woman very clearly. She wore skirts, and skirts, and some more skirts, all scarlet red. She had gnarled hands, droopy eyes, wisps for hair and eyes that saw through you. I remember her, cause I bought a balloon from her. She gave me two instead of one that I paid for. I knew she couldn’t see clearly and couldn’t even hear. I should have given back that extra balloon. But I didn’t. I was given a penny that day to have fun. And it was such a fun day.

Not now. Not anymore. There is just no more fun. Even my friends don’t come around to play anymore. Now they don’t look at my sister and say ‘beautiful’, it is always somehow ‘ those poor kids’ these days. I wonder why. Now Ma says, we are on charity. I don’t understand what charity is but I sure don’t like it. I miss Pa. He never did come back. I am scared of coughs.

+++

Ma says Pa is in heaven. He is happy there. There is everything you need there. I want to go to heaven too. Ma gives me a sad smile. Not one of those brownie smiles, I miss brownies. I don’t even have friends anymore. Not the way they used to be, everything’s changed now. They even let me bat first because I heard them whisper that their Pa told them to be nice to me, and my sister, and I really didn’t mind that, not really until Mika said I couldn’t come to her party because poor people aren’t welcome in her house. But she doesn’t understand that we aren’t poor. How could we be? Wouldn’t Ma have told me otherwise? Even Mary-Ann has changed. She doesn’t look at me anymore. Does this have anything to do with being on charity? How is it that adults never explain anything? How is it that they think we don’t understand anything? How is it that they think we can’t help, decide or even just listen? I can see changes but am still not close to understanding. So what if I still like to play or hate the dark? Am old enough to help. I just wish she would let me. That’s what I miss most about Pa. He would always let me help. Did I mention that it was me who would help him carry his tools belt? I even helped him carve. Now no one cares. There’s something else that bothers me, everything is getting so dirty. Pa’s workshop is all dusty. I never noticed before but it sure gets real dusty, real soon. Pa once told me that sometimes when you get real lucky, and look real hard at the sun beam and the dust dancing in the sunlight, you can see whole pictures caught in that moment and every time after that when the sunlight and just the right amount of dust come together, you can see that whole picture again. I never really believed Pa. Ma only laughed. She said when you want anything real bad, you will see it, but that was no reason to have dust around. And she would make us clean. I didn’t believe her then, but I want to. I stare, stare and stare some more but I see nothing. Ever. I looked for Pa. I looked for everything that was before everything changed. But I saw nothing. I really wanted to believe. I wanted some sign. Was I being punished for keeping that extra balloon? One night, when Pa was ill and having a really bad bout of coughs, I lost my temper. I told him to shut up, I yelled and I cried and I shouted. There was no one home that time. And I feel so guilty.

Is that why I am being punished? Is that why I don’t see the pictures my Pa saw so clearly? I cleaned today. I cleaned every spot. I missed lunch. I don’t think Ma even noticed.
+++

She doesn’t wake up! Mrs. Weimer tells Mrs. Johnson,” those poor kids, whatever will happen to them?”, “ poor souls”, says Mrs. Johnson. “Where’s Ma?” “She’s in heaven”. “Where’s heaven?” “Oh poor Mikey, you are so young for this to have happened to you and your sister” “For what to have happened?” “Shh. Go out and play till we call you in.” And that’s when I knew things have definitely changed. Ma too was gone and she wasn’t coming back. Maybe they didn’t love us enough but I knew that wasn’t possible cause I remember their brownie smiles. They were going to send us away. They said we were orphans. They said we needed help. And they said we were very lucky cause a very nice family agreed to take us in. Lucky?

+++

And we ran. My beautiful sister and me. She doesn’t laugh much these days. We were playing by the river. Like we used to once, before rushing home for supper. I know she too remembered the good times. She starts to cry.

It was a game she loved to play,’ what’s on his mind”. Always guessing what others thought. This time she knew. Just knew. She knew what was on my mind. Gave me a sad smile. We held hands and looked into the river.

+++

How could I have ever hated those smiles? Its great being a family again, a beautiful sister, and those brownie smiles between parents.

He Said

2007-12-12T04:53:00.000-06:00

Walking as she did with the sway of her hips
She weaves a web with blink of her eyes
The unsuspecting male, hardly knows of the perils to come
A manipulative glint, a tigresses’ scorn
Watching from the vantage point afar, smiling a smile unseen
Then caught unaware by the revelation: it started with me.

Of Nostalgia And Such

2007-12-11T16:46:00.001-06:00

Come today and Nostalgia has too cheap a price on its head. The complexity is gone. The touts sell anything from a quick glimpse of a bygone time, or a whiff of forgotten scent. Even snatches of tunes are fair game. Come tomorrow, nostalgia would have an even cheaper price on its head.

The memories are just around the corner to assault ones senses am told. Why the curling, yellow snapshot, when it can be carried on your palm?

A time, much of 'isms. Art translated into ideals. The reference might elude you, but then, references can be had around the block, around the clock. Bartered for one idea, one ideal, one thought, one advice, and one anecdote. For one reference. For one memory.

Does one miss the complexity of feeling? Not Nostalgia as much as reminiscing. Different as they are, but what with Nostalgia to be had at every turn and corner, and reminiscing just one drink away, the prospects can be worrisome.

With one leg in the past steadfastly secure, the other looking for its foothold in the future, leaves the present quite unclaimed.

Life is easy to complicate. And, memories are incidental.

A Murakami Quote Or Two

2007-10-04T23:59:00.001-05:00

From Haruki Murakami's Sputnik Sweetheart-

"Sumire was a hopeless romantic, a bit set in her ways - innocent of the ways of the world, to put a nice spin on it. Start her talking and she'd go on nonstop, but if she was with someone she didn't get along with - most people in the world, in other words - she barely opened her mouth. She smoked too much, and you could count on her to lose her ticket every time she took the train. She'd get so engrossed in her thoughts at times she'd forget to eat, and she was as thin as one of those war orphans in an old Italian film - like a stick with eyes. I'd love to show you a photo of her but I don't have any. She hated having her photograph taken - no desire to leave behind for posterity a Portrait of the Artist as a Young (Wo)Man."

-----

"My head is like some ridiculous barn packed full of stuff I want to write about," she said. "Images, scenes, snatches of words ... in my mind they're all glowing, all alive. Write! they shout at me. A great new story is about to be born - I can feel it. It'll transport me to some brand-new place. Problem is, once I sit at my desk and put them all down on paper, I realize something vital is missing. It doesn't crystallize - no crystals, just pebbles. And I'm not transported anywhere."

Of Champagne And Cheer

2007-10-03T04:35:00.001-05:00

Her ecstacy was hard to explain
It sort of was the 'upper' of rum and coke
As opposed to the 'downer' of straight-laced wine
Of puppies
And 'An affair to remember' and 'Casablanca'
Even her nose glowed, testament
To being in love
She missed the twinkle in her toes
But now the feeling was back
Goosebumps and shivers down her spine
Every kiss exciting as her first
Like jazz in the background
And a long drawn out cigarette
Love-making that took her to galaxies
Far and beyond and back
Intergalactic her love she never thought
But it felt damn good
And now she finally got the part of the Bubbly
And the Cheer that came along
All in a long-stemmed glass.

Of Vases And Relationships

2007-10-02T23:59:00.001-05:00

He always accused her
Of making much of nothing
Like flinging a vase broken
Because the flowers long shrivelled
Water never struck anyone
Anger often alters perception
She of course had her own role
In the grand scheme of things
She was the victim
Of part circumstance, part consequence
And the pout often accompanied her
As did the threat of drying ink
On the pages of her diary
The paper soaking up her woes cloaked in
Dying embers that only her eyes could see
Such is the web of discontent
Woven often by the fingers trapped in them
Come saturday, the curtain rises again
Again, its act one of the happy couple
Because sometimes when the flowers die
Its easy to replace them
The vase remains.

Murakami, Airport Hotels, And Anonymous Stale Coffee

2007-09-29T02:40:00.001-05:00

The Hotel was like any other Airport Hotel, with anonymity at its core and function as its sole purpose. Having gotten past the lobby with its false promises of glamor and clandestine liasons, it was clear to the eye, how it stayed cloaked in what could only be termed as a viscous hive of star crossed weary travellers.

Like her.

She had a long layover, so she checked in and was looking forward to a clean bed and for the first time in many hours to be able to lie down, completely horizontally and not just in a pained incline. When the moment did come, sleep eluded her, and, she was faitgue-tinged, overwrought, and wide-eyed awake.

There is something truly despondent about watching televison at 3am. Its as if Network programming itself conspires with the fates. So instead, she made her way down to the coffee shop.

There was always someone bound to be at the coffee shop. That was the thing about Airport Hotels. So, while the Stale Coffee came, laced with a healthy dose of melancholic rhetoric, only the strange light of 3.30am could shine any real light onto it. No, the coffee shop was lit. Well. Just not enough.

And thats how she came to drink the Stale Coffee at a Airport Hotel. She drank, swallowing the bitter aftertaste. After all, life had been far worse. With every sip, she longed for a twist in the plot. Perhaps a Murakami'esque page-turner. A giant toad, a talking siamese cat, a bonfire. In a smokey jazz club or at a Dennys. Being the intriguing woman that chain smoked. Except, she'd have big breasts.

For now though, she had to be content with anonymity.

With clandestine affairs and the dim glow of twilight, comes alive the bitter taste of Stale Coffee. With memories and regret too. Not to forget, tedious to-do lists. And other than a mildly interested narrator, that being me, does anyone ever even notice her?

Thats the thing with Airport Hotels.

Pickles, Gin And The Unicorn

2007-09-28T03:55:00.001-05:00

She continued to suck on the Pickle
The hit of spice was long gone
What remained was an aftertaste
Much undesired, the taste alive
That with which Ennui was made of
So, she drank Gin, chasing the Pickle
She knew it wasn't wine or even brie
But she had to kill the taste
The clink of ice brought her out of her reverie
Mildly buzzed, she dreamed a dream
Not of fairies, certainly not of Unicorns
Those beasts terrified her
She dreamt not even of Adonis in the clichéd garb of gardener
But of Pickles and glasses of Gin
And of romance woven out of Ennui.

She woke up in sweat, and planned ahead
Today wasn't right, and who knew where tomorrow led
For now, a dream lay dead
Gin soaked and pickled.

Are You Looking?

2007-09-25T23:58:00.000-05:00

There seems to be a pattern to everything.

Have you been looking closely?

Clown, Carnival, And The Lone Sock

2007-09-17T00:00:00.000-05:00

The garish colors seem commonplace
It is after all the Carnival
Where the awkward is on show
And despair painted on the Clown's face
One wanders into the hall of horrors
The naked you reflecting on every crevice
You point and laugh
There is you that is wide and conical
Stretched and twisted another
And then there's that one
You look, you pause, you laugh
An unsure self-depricating one
You recognize the real you
That which lies in wait to be claimed
Quite like the Lone Sock
After many cycles of wash and dry
Has lost its other somewhere
And now lies on top of the laundry
Inevitably finding its way
Pushed way back in the dresser
Remaining quite forgotten
Till you one day walk in
Looking for a pair to mismatch
Specifically
Hands reaching all the way to the back
And soon you have the war paint on
You are to make people laugh
Thats what Clowns do.

A Kafka Quote

2007-09-12T18:36:00.000-05:00

All that he does seems to him, it is true, extraordinarily new, but also, because of the incredible spate of new things, extraordinarily amateurish, indeed scarcely tolerable, incapable of becoming history, breaking short the chain of the generations, cutting off for the first time at its most profound source the music of the world, which before him could atleast be divined. Sometimes in his arrogance he has more anxiety for the world than for himself.

- Kafka, "He" (Aphorisms)

When The Dye Has Been Cast

2007-09-10T23:13:00.000-05:00

Choices have been made.
Cards have been dealt.
But these handcuffed arms
Can't see the hand they've been dealt
Not till the timer beeps
And someone uncuffs them.
Such is destiny.

Feeling Rain

2007-09-06T03:28:00.000-05:00

I have noticed those drops fall
Swollen and angry
They fall with a thwack
An angry slap at all that they touch
A rhythmic whine
An off-key scream
A persistent patter of complaint
They collect in a puddle or two
Pooling their grievances
Festering disillusionments
Only to run off into little streams
Seeking an escape
Even from what they are destined to become
Clouding windows
And impending rituals
Such like that
Of smoke breaks in little balconies
Those drops have their own agenda
To wreck vengeance
As they fall
High-fiving each other.

Of Scrapbooks, Closure

2007-09-05T01:54:00.000-05:00

He felt his love stayed unrequited,
As he continued to flip through,
Another page, another story
Strangers' sagas and intimate conversations.
There were many small inside jokes,
And he checked the dates,
Wondered how another's scrapbook
Becomes another's salvation.
Maybe this would give some closure he thinks,
Ponders why she never showed up that day,
Or the next.
Was it to be another shaky movie premise?
Cary Grant was not he,
And he continues to turn page after page,
Stood up and left to deal.
Funny, he continued to look for answers,
And for some dramatic revelation.
But another page turned,
Another chapter ended,
And that one had his name on it.

Irony, The Recurring Theme

2007-09-04T23:59:00.000-05:00

It is often in the busy wilderness, that you find a spot that pulsates with the 'quiet'.

It is at that despondent lonely spot, where even at the lowest point, you have never been more alive! Its there that you hear the loudest, see the clearest and breathe the deepest.

Between The Dairy And Produce Aisle

2007-08-31T08:00:00.000-05:00

I have often playfully thrown around words like 'existential angst'.
Living it, spins a whole another meaning to it.
Picking a jar from passion's shelf
Ones that are labelled, boldly,
" No refunds towards regrets"
Really put a twist on those cautionary tales.
And now, am reading labels
And re-checking expiration dates,
Choices apparantly come with a no return policy.

Because It Isn't.

2007-08-30T07:15:00.000-05:00

"Goldfish do it in the privacy of their bowls", Ella croons,
'Falling in love' seems to be the tune
She swooned lovesick
Moping another woe of having been parted.
Don't hurry with your condolences,
Love departed, but hardly unrequited.
So they live their lives,
Separated by timezones,
And degrees of passion felt
Conjoined in the fact that they are
Souls redeemed, soulmates found,
Enough to make the most jaded, cruelest
To waver, and melt.
Because, other than a minor inconvenience,
Of timed phone calls,
And planned online trysts,
All seemed rosy.
Hues of youth's indiscretions.
And determined promises.
Pity though that they remain,
A fragment of imagination.
Am much of a cynic to be so naive,
To have not dawned upon the realisation,
Love so perfect,
And easy,
Without its own travails,
Is no love at all.

Irony

2007-08-29T08:00:00.000-05:00

Before a breakthrough, a breakdown seems necessary ...

Part Deux

2007-08-28T08:15:00.000-05:00

There isn't much left to wish for.
So, when you see that falling star, what is it that you do?
Do you see the realities you are forced upon everyday?
Do you grow up once again,
As quickly as you had to that one time before?
Or do you stop and make a wish anyway?
Keeping alive that child in you, the optimist, the hopeful in you?
Or do you resolve, quite determinedly this time,
That there isn't much left to wish for.

Coz life after all hasn't been that bad to you.

Relative Reality

2007-08-27T00:21:00.000-05:00

Who would've thought, in a land of sinning neanderthals,
Am the saint who wears a halo.
But before I take a bow,
It would do me good to remember,
Basis of civilization might just be borne out of relativity.