Friday, December 30, 2005

Tears of glory

I cried when Katsumoto's son dies at the bridge riddled with bullets as he charges towards the Japanese soldiers and then when he dies himself in a blaze of glory in the movie The Last Samurai. Tom Cruise ofcourse survives. I cried when Akshay Khanna dies with a look of complete surprise on his face in Border.I get so moved by the music track and sounds of war cries. I get swept up in emotion when Orlando Bloom swoops down the stairs on a shield shooting arrows at the enemy killing them by the dozen in The Lord of the Rings. I love the way music rises up as the son of the Last of the Mohicans falls at the hands of the evil Magua. Death is never more glorified than on the battlefield especially in the movies.

I always thought I didn't like violent movies. I now realise that something about the death of a loved hero in the battlefield moves me. I like the sensation it causes. And at the same time I find myself wondering about the real people who go to war on behalf of us civilians. Does God switch to slow motion when the real heroes die? Is it really worth it to be a hero when your destination is a premature violent death?

And there is one question which bothers me and I ask many times... What is the difference between a man who is sentenced to death because he is a murderer for hire and a soldier who gets a medal when he dies heroically at the front? Both die. Both are hired. One a hero and the other a villain.Why don't I cry when Kevin Spacey gets killed by Brad Pitt in Seven. Is it because Brad Pitt is a hero. Because the director wants me to feel relieved... there is no slow motion... no soaring music even though Kevin Spacey is a hero in his field of murders... I don't know

Thursday, December 22, 2005

Walking in Delhi

I walk everyday at 7:00 pm in the park in front of my house. As I walk really fast on the cement tiled pathway thoughts race across my mind. This is a park where I played kho kho, pitthu phod, chain chain, poshumpa poshumpa and campacola Goldspot for too many years to remember. I used to run 800 mts without breaking a sweat and now I huff and puff by the time I'm on my sixth round. My favorite hindi teacher who kept me busy doing school plays...making cartoons...singing...writing poetry and even studying. I recently passed by my school in a car on a wednesday. We had Physical Education day on wednesday therefore everyone wore white.

I think about Oxford book house that I went to recently. It is an improved version of Crossword on the outside. There's a fascinating spring like seating place. You have to see it to believe it. It is neither a sofa nor a chair nor a stool nor a sofa. This is the best way I can describe it. The best thing about it is a lovely cafe. Pity I gave up coffee. Another distinguishing feature is that they have a hindi Book section. Pity I haven't read a hindi book in ages.

Then there's the Crafts Museum next to Pragati Maidan. I bought two bed covers the last time I went there...watched the craftsmen creating beauty with their hands. I look at the museum which has some really scary large sculptures among other things. I always visit the overpriced gift shop...ogle at the lovely boxes and silver jewellery. Last but not the least I end up waving at every autorickshaw and it always takes at least half an hour to get one.

I pass by the new Akshardham mandir everytime I come home. The first time I saw it was when I had just landed in Delhi. It is a vision in light in the darkness and during the day it looks just as beautiful. I wish to see this wonder up close very soon. I hear it embodies 5 or 7 kinds of architecture. I wouldn't be able to recognise the different styles but I will feel the space and beauty.

Then there's my favorite Dilli Haat. I've been there twice already. Craftsmen and women from all over the country. All sorts of objects of desire. I can spend any amount of guiltfree money in this place. I bought the perfect black silk scarf in self design with tassles. I can't wait to wear it.
I always eat a masala dosa or momos. Last time I had momos they were amazingly bad. Actually there are all these food places from all over the country and still I can only trust a dosa. They also have an overpriced giftshop where I never spend a paisa.

And in the end I think about me... all grown up... wondering why am I always missing at least one family... why can't I have them all at the same time?

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

Old clothes

Polka dotted frock with frills
Long loose sweater falling to the knees
Striped tie and long sleeved sweater from school
Mom saved remnants of a long gone childhood

Saturday, December 17, 2005


a smouldering cigarette butt
dropping on the floor of a petrol station
as a leaking tank stands parked

Saturday, December 10, 2005


I was wandering on Jolvin's blog when I understood what the 7 tag meant so here it is and I'm not gonna tag anyone but I had fun doing this!

7 things I plan to do

1.Create a beautifully organised kitchen
2. Own a Beetle
3. One day find readymade jeans that fit
4. Write the perfect piece of prose with the perfect end
5. Eat less rice
6. Add to my small collection of boxes
7. Start taking pictures again

7 things I can do

1. Read a book start to finish 99% of the time
2. Do Tarot readings
3. Sing nearly all of Suzanne Vaga and Madonna songs
4. Write poetry
5. Take photographs
6. My nails
7. Paperwork

7 things I can't do

1. Be an editor
2. Fold an ironed shirt
3. Not pick up a stray puppy
4. Wear red
5. Do a tarot reading for myself
6. Control my dreams
7. Resist all sorts of stationary

7 things I say most often

1. Hello
2. Where are you?
3. what re?
5. I just came to the conclusion that I really don't have any catch phrases!!

7 things I believe in

1. My family's love for me
2. My love for my family
3. There are no lines on the real map
4. People who help quietly
5. a sincere apology
6. Love
7. Myself

Thursday, December 08, 2005


Breathe in
Breathe out

Thursday, December 01, 2005

Delhi metro

I went on the Delhi metro today. I was so aware of the fact that I was going to be 20 feet underground. I checked the map. I bought the 10 bucks token and showed it's face to the scanner at the multiple entrances to the platforms. I got into the train waiting for it to make the usual train sound. Dhadak dhadak , dhadak dhadak. It made more of a swooosh sound and moved ahead like a plane picking up speed on the runway. There was a helpful electronic moving sign which announced the next station. A woman's voice repeated the same information. A sikh man unabashedly kept staring at me till I finally stared him down.
The train came to the last station. I didn't jump out of the train. I walked out, that felt truly alien for someone used to the mumbai locals. The level of the train floor is exactly the same as the platform floor. The floor of the platform is absolutely clean. The train floor is absolutely clean.
I went up the escalator. I dropped the token into one of the multiple exits. I got out into the open...and took a very long, deep breath.

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

Anybody home?

The blank space stares
The line blinks like a heartbeat
The day is cold and dim
Pupils knocking on the screen

Sunday, November 27, 2005

For two days

A song on the tip of my tongue
I hum desperately
Halfway through the tune
Partial words spill over

And then you sing it
totally off key
and finally
I can sing my song

How can I ever thank you!

Friday, November 25, 2005

Would you?

If you asked me to
I would excuse myself
I would excuse myself
and tell the grim reaper
I'm wanted elsewhere

Wednesday, November 23, 2005


Wake up in the middle of the day... eat chole chawal... sit in the sun for a long puts henna in the hair... will hide the grey temporarily...feels cool and warm at the same time...stray dog comes and falls asleep at my feet... makes me want to go back to sleep ... have already slept for 12 hours... a cat walks out of my home... looks at the dog and jumps up to go into the park... three pigeons eat bajra at the neighbour's house...
If I go inside for sometime the pigeons will come to the gate of our small lawn... I sit without moving a muscle... about half an hour passes by... one pigeon comes... another one circles around but doesn't sit n eat... a little birdie comes... she is black and gray... she does R&D of our little lawn... She decides not to live in the birdhouse like all the other birdies before her... I want to smile but it might make her go away... I'm not done watching her... She goes away...
I look up...I see a black not so tiny birdie... it has the cutest tiny orange ass... I look n look n look till it goes away... I cut my nails otherwise mom will cut them... I get online... hubby is on msn... he tells me the black n grey birdie is called Purple Sun Bird... the orange ass is called Bulbul... I want to go buy that box... blue, green and beautiful...
I want to listen to Lazy days by Enya... the cd is in Bombay... have you ever felt the craving for a song you just couldn't have... it's sweet sweet mildest form of pain... time to wash the henna... oh what a laze laze beautiful day.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

The fair

Went to the trade fair with Papa on a Sunday. It's almost a tradition. I always go with Papa to PragatiMaidan and see the fair. There were so many people it was hard to concentrate on any one thing... bought a beautiful box and later realised they make it in Noida which is next door to where I live.

I love boxes of all shapes and sizes and materials. I have my eye on another box. I will buy it if it is still there when I go to this beautiful shop called next in Noida. I have already been there twice and resisted buying it. If I go there another time I won't resist.

You shouldn't go to the Trade fair in Delhi on a Sunday. We were lucky to get in although we had to go to the Metro station to get the tickets. The station is a huge space and looks very nice. I hope to take a ride on the train sometime soon.

They had to keep shutting off the entrance to the fair due to the number of people already inside. They were encouraging the people who were already there to leave so that other people could come inside. We had to walk and walk and walk to get to the car. I managed to sit in the open air furniture section for some time on a swing. That was nice.

I love my box and the other one which I don't have yet too. That one is a small hexagonal blue box in stone with a green shiny circle in the middle. So many times people ask why I love boxes so much? I'm not sure. If I think hard enough I'm sure I could present you with a logical reason but it's just that as long as I can remember I've liked them. Lots of people do.

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

Bless you God

Supposed to have been legally married today.
He couldn't come.
They say if he doesn't come by Christmas apply again.
Husband+Wife+3 witnesses+Registrar+Ration Card Original+6 signatures= Marriage.
How cool is that?
All that hoopla in Delhi 5 years ago.
Hundreds of guests.
We've been living in sin.
How exciting is that?

I leave for Delhi tomorrow.
Delhi in winter.
With my family.
After eons.
Bless you God.

Sunday, October 30, 2005

One day at a time

It's funny how when everyone is so far away everything becomes a bit unreal... I guess it takes time getting used to the fact that you might end up living so long that you will still be here when everyone who knows your nick name is gone.
I wonder if you knew that for sure would you want to live that long a life or would you rather retire at a ripe old age?
In any case nature will take care of such things I guess. No need to worry. Take it one day at a time and make the most of it.

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

There he goes

He left for Dubai. He will come back. In three weeks. To marry me. Again. Legally.
Cockroaches, pigeons, computer, tv, books, two blank canvases, paints, brushes and I will be right here.
So come around.

Saturday, October 15, 2005

Dear Subconscious

I have been dreaming every night as always. Now it's become twice thrice in the night. All the characters in the dream are people I know. All the situations are similar to the realities that took place. It's as if I live life in the day time and my mind makes a movie about it and has a screening in the night ( and I thought I was the one supposed to be making movies but then my subconscience has always been far more creative with imagery). All the time waiting with relish... Let's see... should I scare her or plain confuse her or be merciful and just give her something amusing to wake up to? Is she still not going to listen and try to make sense of me?

Dear Subconscious,
For God's sake if there's anything specific you're trying to tell me do so without scaring the crap out of me in the middle of the night. I always thought dreams were like random pieces of colour which are unique and beautiful and trying to interpret them was like butchering a beautiful painting by saying that it has to mean something.
But seriously after tonight's dream I am a believer. I believe you are trying to tell me something. I just don't know what the hell it is. So let's watch a few straight forward hollywood movies and then let's try again. Please no Foreign language films tonight just some light hearted stuff. Let's avoid the movie marathons and have only one every night.
I promise I will try to understand. Kindly do not send me another nightmare like last night, at least not for the next one month. I don't want to feel afraid of falling asleep!
Your ever loving

Thursday, October 13, 2005


Lost my wallet yesterday. I kept it on a shelf at D- mart and then forgot about it. Considering I make no money losing 5,200 bucks was a huge blow. Ofcourse everyone at home was really nice about it. Husband said, " It's only money. "
Some time ago my friend insisted I needn't pay for my cold drink and I said , " Money is a bitch. If you're not careful it comes in the way of relationships." and paid anyway. She asked me why I didn't leave a tip and I said when I make money I leave a tip and now that I don't I'm a cheapster.
The more I need money, the more I hate it. May be that's why my attempts at making it have all been such disasters. May be if I didn't hate it so much it would come to me more easily. So I have decided that this Diwali I will pray especially hard and hopefully win the lottery or else someone will ring the bell. I will open the door and he will say, " Madam aapka parcel aaya hai " and I will sign for a cardboard box from Laxmi Enterprises. Ofcourse I will open it and there it will be... stacks and stacks of bitchin' money and I will call my husband's name. I will give it to him and say, " Now you can quit your job and experiment with your life instead. " And then I will wake up and open the door and the Kaamwali bai will say, " Bhabhi mein kitni baar bell bajaya. Aap uthta nahin hai!" I will think to myself..., " Itna accha sapna aayega to kaisa uthega!"

Sunday, October 09, 2005

huna huna huna

Again I sit here wanting to write something... so many things come to mind... I want to write all of them at once but I cannot. I have to go and perform a sacred ceremony. It is a ceremony for making peace with the planets before you move into a home. I will perform it along with my husband. I have been part of this ceremony before when it was performed for my husband's aunt's house. I loved filling out the various colours for the different planets on the floor and the pundit ji explained the significance of all the colours. Married couples are supposed to do this puja and I will wear my bridal chunni after a little over five years. My mother chose it for me with a lot of love and care from a small shop in Lajpat Nagar in Delhi. I miss my mother and I wonder what she is doing right now. I wouldn't be surprised if she calls in about one minute's time. She has an immense sixth sense where I'm concerned. It amazes me many times. I believe most mothers have this quality. Sometimes I want to thank her for all that she has done for me over the years but I will feel like a fool if I even tried and she will be confused. But I want to thank her anyway for giving me birth and for keeping me alive.
I slept for an hour in the morning and managed to have a dream within that hour. My mind refuses to stop talking to me. My friends tell me I should try doing meditation to get rid of the chatter in my head. I like the chatter and with rare exceptions I love the dreams so I don't meditate.
For some reason the left and right clicks on the mouse have been interchanged. This also has happened before. Everyone got so used to it that when we eventually got a new one it felt weird for some time.
I think I need new lenses because the ones I wear now are getting foggier by the day and I can't see very well. For those of you who don't know I am terribly short sighted. I need glasses first thing in the morning. I wear lenses when I go out of the house or have my picture taken. Stupid useless vanity I guess.
For sometime I stopped wearing all jewellery aside from my watch and engagement ring. I felt lighter. I'm wearing diamonds today that my father chose with love and care to give me at my wedding. I cherish these tiny rocks. I don't know why I feel so awfully sentimental today. I remember when my father taught me to drive and I fought with him . I swore I would never learn from him again. He taught me anyway. I still don't drive but that's just because of my lack of practice. I was forever afraid to step on to an escalator. He took me up yelling and screaming anyway. I still avoid the escalator but sometimes I go up on it just to prove to myself that I can do it. I feel like thanking him too but again I will feel foolish and he will break into a booming laughter.
That's another thing he gave me which I cherish - a booming laughter. I want to thank him anyway for never expecting me to be successful and buying me a pair of black suede shoes with gold buckles way beyond his means.
Paul Young comes to mind
You can live in the love of the common people
that smiles from the heart of a family man.
Daddy's gonna buy you a dream to cling to,
Mama's gonna love you just as much as she can
and she can.
HMMMM.... huna huna huna

Saturday, October 08, 2005

Anonymous people

Yes it has been a month and I have not written anything on the blog. I didn't think anyone would notice really. I did try to write several times. I constantly deleted. My friends who are used to writing on the computer will know the activity very well.
You write one line and then you realise a) It's too personal b) It's not profound as you would like it to be c) You made too many spelling mistakes therefore broke the mood d) It just doesn't sound right in your head and e) Especially in my case it happens to be a fantastic dream you had which makes no sense to you so what sense will it make to someone who reads it.
I also realised that after recieving appreciation for the last post that I may not be too bad at handling prose either. The only difference being that poetry comes naturally to me... it's a wonderful place to express and sometimes to hide whereas prose is clear, concise and bound by rules and says exactly what it means and therefore I find it more difficult.
This is a public space as one of my friends reminded me and you have to be extremely careful in what you write here. He is right... which is why I will wait for another neutral subject to come to mind when I write next and I don't know when that will be... may be in the next few hours... may be I will dig up a poem or two.
Till then do keep leaving comments. Good or bad or whatever. As I've said before they always make me very happy. And thanks for noticing my absence. The passport people almost had me convinced I didn't exist.
I love anonymous people. It's always exciting not knowing although one hopes to know. For now they don't exist and yet they are alive... and watching.

Saturday, September 10, 2005


I like screens, they are flat, shiney and alive with imagery of all kinds and words of all sorts. The most beautiful screens are those Chinese screens that my friends in textiles used to make with cloth and wood which would let you see what was behind only partially. They were so mysterious.

For a long time I used to keep imagining there were little people moving all the data and carrying messages back and forth in computers. Now they are mostly the place where my poems and some prose reside permanently I hope... at least till the time the little people get tired with all the running around and quit.

I was looking at my address book which I still carry though never use because I have the small cellphone screen. I realised that 95% of the numbers in my book are outdated. I wanted to copy everything from the cell screen to the diary but I haven't done it. If the phone is lost so are all the numbers. Funny thing is that I recently called every number in my cell and realised that a lot of people who had so enthusiastially exchanged numbers had already ' updated' so they didn't recognise who I was from caller id. I'm updated now and the little people have less to do and am sure will not quit.

And then there's the cinema screen... larger than life. An entire hall full of little people sitting together and watching the big people. Eating pop corn, drinking pepsi and mineral water, holding hands, making out, laughing, crying, getting irritated and all of that. Together and yet not really so. It's like a large computer, only sometimes it feels like the big people are looking and smiling down at the little people thinking... I hope you won't get tired and quit watching us.

And ofcourse what can I say about the mother of them all the TV screen. I'm sure there are no little people running around in it because the little people are running in our own heads and I doubt that they will ever quit. Though sometimes one wishes to shut off all the screens because lately I feel like I'm always looking at a screen, reading words, hearing words, writing words... and yet there's no talk.

Saturday, September 03, 2005


If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, does it still make a noise?
If you make a beautiful picture but no one ever sees it, is it still beautiful?
If you write something brilliant but no one ever reads it, is it still brilliant?
If no one ever sees you for a year, were you dead or alive that year?
All good questions I think. I'm sure they've been asked before by other people.
I don't want to read a complicated book or go to a Guru to find the answers.
Do tell what you think.

Sunday, August 28, 2005

You stay alive

In order to have pride you must not love
In order to love you must be willing to die
It is not even a final physical death
It is the kind of dying which involves humiliation
The kind that involves immense courage
The courage to die several times
The courage to be born again
The courage to cry alone
The courage to stop yourself from wrenching
your heart out of your ribs and feeding it to a hungry dog
The courage to care when your best friend tells you, " Don't bother! "
The courage to stay alive when life slaps you in the face
and tears roll down your face and all you want to do is die.
Under all circumstances you stay alive.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005


I'm so tired
Someone make this day unhappen before it happens
Hold my hands of wax
and turn them to wings

teach me how to swim
or turn me into a fish
and then into food
and then be fed
to a poor little girl I saw rummaging in the garbage can

the one I didn't invite to share with me
even though I ate alone
with money in my bag
and in my heart
good intentions

Sunday, August 21, 2005


Torn papers
cut up fabrics
never to be stitched again

words written
to be erased or
never to be read

words spoken
spewing evil in privacy
of closed doors

non violent methods
can sometimes fail

Rage can hurt,
hit or kill
So drink a glass of cold water
and think again

May be there is a way

Thursday, August 18, 2005

There's no forgetting

This is a poem written by Pablo Neruda. I love Neruda and if I had been alive during his time I would have been his greatest fan or stalker or whatever possible to know him better. I had a book of his poems which is now missing. I only have a print of this one poem now which is my favourite.
There have been many times when people have met me after long periods of time and asked me that question- Where have you been?
I have felt like handing over this poem to them so they would never ask me that again. So here's Pablo Neruda for you...

If you should ask me where I've been all this time
I have to say ' things happen'
I have to dwell on stones darkening the earth,
on the river ruined in it's own duration:
I know nothing save things the birds have lost,
the sea I left behind , or my sister crying.
Why this abundance of places? Why does day lock with day?
Why the dark night swilling around in our mouths?
And why the dead?

Should you ask me where I come from, I must talk
with broken things
with fairly painful utensils,
with great beasts turned to dust as often as not
and my afflicted heart.

These are not memories that have passed each other
nor the yellowing pigeon in our forgetting;
these are tearful faces
and fingers down our throats
and whatever among leaves may fall to the ground:
the dark of a day gone by
grown fat on our grieving blood.

Here are violets, and here swallows,
all things we love and which inform
sweet messages seriatim
through which time passes and sweetness passes.

We don't get far, though, beyond these teeth:
Why waste time gnawing at the husks of silence?
I know not what to answer:
There are so many dead,
and so many dikes the red sun breached,
and so many heads battering hulls
and so many hands that have closed over kisses
and so many things that I want to forget.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

Universe has much to do

Once I was stuck in an auto rickshaw at Jawaharnagar phatak in Goregaon. A friend was with me and I was slowly losing patience. I started cursing the traffic which was getting thicker and noisier by the minute. A while later I noticed that the bicycle walas and the scooter walas were going under the barricade and it added to my chagrin. I told my friend may be we should get out and do the same. He reminded me that in all probability we won't get an auto on the other side.
I got more and more pissed off as I couldn't wait to get to my favourite air conditioned shop in Andheri and buy myself nice clothes. It was unbearably hot. Finally I started cursing my friend for having taken that particular route.
Very calmly he told me,' May be the universe has something specific in mind for you. May be it needs time to prepare before you get to the shop, like the right dress, the right size might be on their way and need to get there before you do.'

I shut my mouth and sat quietly waiting for the trains to pass.

I'm reminded of a poem I wrote. It has nothing to do with what I just said... it's just got the word train in it too. Enjoy.

Delicate issue of distance

Time is like a train stuck in traffic

Let’s never sit together in any compartments
Let’s never study together for we’ll both fail

Words will contemplate your actions and vice versa
Only distance can bring you to me

Distance that I will create and consistently keep

Saturday, August 06, 2005

God's protest in the rain

Smoking billowing chimneys in the rain
It rains amidst trees stuck…
Stuck between water tanks on top of buildings
Trucks , Vans, autorickshaws, trucks and
Smoking exhaust pipes in the rain

Blinding raging rain
Furious angered Gods in the clouds
Protesting against blood
Both ways

Let’s commit horror
And then talk about it
And then hate

Amidst God’s protest
We, of our race break blood in the rains
on the telly

Making perfect sense

The following lines are dedicated to Anshuman.

In days

that have a plethora of subjects

to be analysed

and made sense of

You and I

make perfect sense


I’m a glitter dispensing rubber ball
I’ve been found bouncing off people all the time
I’m a flicker of a smile
And a flame born of a million stars

I am the gurgling part of the fountain
I giggle in short gasps
I’m the white sauce they forget to serve you at times
I am the whole wheat bread my friends love so much

I’ve been seen buzzing around your hair
I was found singing without music in all available corridors
You can pass me by when I’m whizzing without wheels
I’m found everywhere by everyone

While I’m lost to all of them
I was discovered yesterday tickling a Sparrow
through the windows that are really walls
I could be in that book you haven’t bought yet

I could be found sitting in front of you

Tribute to Wednesday

Life is made up of several such wasted afternoons
Red suitcases underlined by Black umbrellas
A thrown away ruffle
and a potentially dangerous package

The thinking hat talks to the Newspaper
May be they’ll find a way to avoid the next world war
A trunk full of leftovers
Top it all with a few white thermocol blues

Radio sings on top of the TV
I’ll be waking up in half an hour
Don’t any of you be waiting up for me

Monday, August 01, 2005

rain and gay sex

It is that time of the year when I keep opening and closing the windows as and when the rain decides to stop or start again. The only time I find myself with a pocha in my hand wiping the floor three four times a day when the water seeps through the sliding windows of my room.
Somehow I can't get over this film I happened to watch the other day called bad education. The gay sex just threw me off and after a while I had to shut my eyes. I just couldn't watch it. Even before this I watched a collection of sexually explicit foriegn films ... some of them the gay kind. I get totally uncomfortable watching these images and it is amazing to me that it is real for so many people.
I know a few gay people and they are my friends, some of them very close to me and although their sexualty has never been an issue. I realise now having watched these films what the whole debate is all about. I feel I can somewhat understand the difficulty in trying to gain acceptance in the society especially ours which is essentially a very closed and conservative one. Also why heterosexual people can be homophobic. I think it's just because when you imagine gay sex or actually see it the sheer contrast between the two ways of life can shock you.
One the other hand a gay person could be watching a perfectly "normal" sex scene and shut their eyes.
Moral of the story, I will avoid watching gay sex :-)

Tuesday, July 26, 2005


There's a lot to be said for silence. It's like the softest of quilts which covers you and keeps you safe for the longest time. You may even fall asleep and have all sorts of dreams. Have you ever noticed that you rarely ever speak in your dreams and when other people speak you either forget what they said or not understand at all. You may try to speak but the actual words don't come out. That is the gift of silence.
Reminds me of a dream I once had a long time ago. I'm sitting in a restaurant. I see a man approaching me. I instantly know that he is going to try to talk to me. I don't want to speak to him so I get up and start walking out but he blocks my way and asks me something. I make gestures to make him understand that I cannot hear and speak. He understands and backs away. I smile to myself having fooled him. Smugly I walk out and find myself in an alley and someone taps my shoulder and I turn around. It's a friend. I want to tell him about the man in the restaurant but a choking sound comes out of my throat. I've lost my voice. I wake up.
That soft quilt of silence can choke you if you're not careful and come out of it once in a while and indulge in polite conversation or whatever else is available to you. It is difficult to be comfortable in silence but you can master the art of having your lips touching each other permanently and after a long long time it will become the most natural thing to be. Silent.
Now I will burst your bubble and tell you that your mind will speak incessantly and even when you sleep in that beautiful quilt of silence dreams will tell you stories screaming for you to understand them. You could try or you could forget about them with a shake of the head as most of us do.
Hmmm... that's a lot of talk from me for a change. I shall go back to my quilt and you can visit the next webpage on your agenda or disconnect.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

Funeral of an angel

Reality can completely and utterly fail you
You can spill your coffee
And you can always end up
with the inappropriate song

You choose the correct words
And reality speaks all the wrong ones
Small joys like fishes
Can end up dying like last night

Buried in yesterday’s news
A few broken radars lost in a fight
The funeral will play itself out
When the other parent arrives

Toes and fists

And I could be found literally asking for trouble
Dying to lessen the noise in my head
Unable to bear the silence of tidal waves
From across several Oceans

I could be found trying to turn your toes into fists
Wiping the sweat off your mind
Trying to hold my pencil straight
Tying up my hair and never letting it down

I could misunderstand myself and confuse everyone else
I could run and I could slip and I could fall


If I were to stop and think too much
I may have to wait a long time to grow beyond my years

If I were to think too much
I might miss my childhood when it comes knocking for the second time

If I were to lie to myself out of desperation
I may miss the truth of my yin and your yang

If I were to stop because I’m tired
I may just miss the last bus to the other end of the constellation

If I were to feel ashamed of my lack of grace
I may have to forgo the pleasure of prancing in the rain

If I were to wait for permissions from all parties involved
I may just lose my most precious thought

If I were to wait too long for the sun to come up
I may have to sacrifice my perfect night

If I were advised not to feel too much
I may have to disregard it


The reason I exist is you
and I justify your name

Sunday, June 26, 2005


If you run into this creature called love
Do greet him or her warmly for me

These days it feels like
warm feet under a quilt

Like the smell of incense
in a temple I escape to regularly

Like furious sex with
an unknown man in a dream

and like a flying kiss from
a four year old boy

That's what it feels like
I think
but is it?

Thursday, June 23, 2005

Birthday dream

It's my birthday and I would like to write something profound but I realise that I have absolutely nothing to say... I slept for a long time in the afternoon.. that's when you get the best dreams and I see dreams everytime I fall asleep... best of all I even remember them everytime...
I'll just tell you about the one I had today...
I was going in an auto with anshuman then we stopped and got out. He gave me his cell phone and we parted ways. I came to this place with buildings on both sides. Suddenly a girl, my neighbour from Delhi gave me chocolate slice cake wrapped in cellophane... apparently it's her birthday. I'm surprised at first and then I take it.
And then I get thirsty ( in real life I always carry a bottle of water with me) I come to a shop which is a strange place. Everything is kept in the basement and you have to talk to the shopkeeper from a window on the first floor. I ask for water and at first he doesn't seem to listen because there are a lot of people... then I try to mouth the words ' Bisleri '. He tries to sell me all sorts of things... rice, chips but never seems to get to the water... and then finally another friend from school comes and yells at him which gets his atention and I get water. Both of us turn around and start walking away and I realise I have forgotten my cake. I go back to find one of my seniors, a girl from school eating it... only four slices are left. I try to take it away from her but she resists so I slap her and take my cake.
Then My friend and I walk towards home in Delhi and I take out Anshuman's phone because i want to call him but then I realise it's his phone I'm holding so he is without one... I woke up

Moral of the dream. Never forget your cake otherwise someone else will eat it!!

Wednesday, June 15, 2005


A woman in a shop full of shoes
And what’s your story I want to know
The young little one with delicate fingers
he cuts the old man’s hair every month
Year after year

The Boss of his own small shop of marble cutters
He chats up the clients
and duly reprimands the assistant
‘Take what’s needed then just let me go’ Says Suzanne

Majestic old Banyan lowers his arms to hold me
Oh he’s tied up with nylon ropes and electricity wires I see
Ah the wheels are set in motion
I’m on my way home with Suzanne

Another barber sleeping in his reflection
We stop again
Suzanne sings the background score of a lonely actress
on an upset video screen
I wait and the sun decides to shine on a red roof

I want to wave to someone
But there’s no one here that I know
I’ll wait a few hours to say hello

A beautiful woman child dressed in black clothes and umbrella
How many things does she have to be afraid of?
The small town finally says Goodbye
“If you ever get the time...come again” It says
“ and if you don’t...that’s fine too”

Mixed smells of fruits and cooking oils
“ Go ahead...move with the winds’ It says
This town of youth, hotels, hostels and insurance companies
A beautiful victorian facade set against straight lines
Mother Mary is still holding her child
This is a good time to miss the love of my life

Lip service for Suzanne...I love it
“Bring to you...anything “ She says
She knows what I want
She knows what I need
She sings for me

Watercolours with rain and a glow sign
Yes it all fits...this is where I belong
With Suzanne, On my way home
That boy who loved me in school
was in that building for a few forgotten years
Where is he?

Neatly maintained buildings live with the ones under construction
Couples at the edge of town hiding behind hanging roots
Hey your bike’s shut down and I so wanna help you out
But I’ve got to leave this town

The clouds are departing with grey suitcases...
They’re kissing the hills Goodbye...
Sunshine gets the green signal
My hair play with my eyes

Toll taxes and purple pipes in the middle of my roads
A single crow flies and doesn’t care if I leave it behind
Drizzle kisses my face in bunches
Yellow flowers at equal interludes
Heavens in the hills

That man under a large yellow plastic cone
The poorest of them all
Walks in the heavens
Supported by a wooden stick

Parallel roads seperated by flowers
A smashed car...did someone die in heaven?
Is that the same crow again?
Reborn from the tunnels of darkness
Waterfalls greet Suzanne

The clouds move again...
It’s the wedding procession of the Queen in waiting
All streams flow into the town sprinkled in the valley
I’m on my way home with Suzanne.

This poem was written on my way back from Pune to Mumbai. I was listening to Suzanne Vega and she was singing about a friend of hers that tried to commit suicide. The song was beautiful and so was the journey. Enjoy the poem!

Sunday, June 05, 2005

About my poems

This is very tough for me to write... I have never tried to read or interpret my poetry too much... to me it has always been something that I just had to do to get rid of the discomfort I felt at the particular time... sometimes my stomach hurt and at other times my heart or my head ... at other times a few words floated in my head and I just had to write them down... sometimes I heard a particular piece of music and a poem literally walked out of the speakers...I had no control over it... I really have no control over my poems... they have an identity seperate from mine... they come from me and then they are out there touching or moving someone who reads them.

I haven't been writing much lately... I used to write incessantly in my journal but I stopped doing that... what can I say life took over... I still carry my journal with me everywhere I go but I don't write in it... At least in the last two months I haven't written anything... The last thing I wrote was Prayer to the unnamed.

Now I read incessantly... I read all the time... I read only fiction... strangely I haven't read much poetry except Pablo Neruda... actually that's all I've read... My concern has never been for the style of writing... I don't like big words...

I'd like to say thanks to everyone who took the trouble to comment on my poems... it makes me truly happy... I would be happier still if the anonymous people would come out of the shadows and tell me who they are!!

Last but not the least do keep coming around... I will try to be more regular in updating my blog...

Friday, May 13, 2005

Prayer to the unnamed

Should death meet me tonight
Should I be rude?
Or should I kill it with soft words?
Should I be indignant?
Or should I choose the life of a beggar?

Should I be seductive?
Or should I simply turn my back and sleep...
and die for about ten hours anyway?

Sunday, March 13, 2005

Choices and conditions


Everything it seems is a clear choice I make

I don’t want to care about choice

I choose nothing I choose nothing still and unmoving

I choose nothing mute and hurt

I care nothing for logical flow of thought

However pre programmed you insist it is

I care nothing for burnt yellow roses and pretty faces

Nothing for a time of no beauty or instinct

Nothing for a life which is someone else’s choice

Nevermind the wasted smiles ringing

I care nothing for either silence or anger

Nothing for the craving of chocolate topped with cream

Nothing for the phlegm in my mouth

Nothing for the cough of hollows in my throat

I care nothing for fingers sliced from the nails

Nothing for fruit flies and pigeon troubles

Nothing for carefully arranged bottles and potions

Nothing for my ever absent guests or imaginary ones

Nothing for the bitter cold around styrofoam cups

Nothing for political conversations at lunch

Nothing for intelligent conversations at lunch

Nothing for polite conversations at lunch

Explain to me

What is the metaphysics of irrationality?

I will rest for one whole day

Now of all things you’ll tell me Everything.

Everything is a clear choice I make

Wednesday, March 02, 2005

Timeless future

Every day I wait…

Who knows why I wait…

Many years ago I was found waiting…

Waiting breathlessly for some future to arrive

And now I sometimes think…

That I must be still waiting there not knowing the future

Was never supposed to arrive at all…

because I’m living it.

And it’s not the one that I’m still waiting for…

Back then.

I must tell myself to get up from that odd chair..

in that dingy restaurant…

and go home to wait for me.

I’m the only character who ever arrived…

to wait again.

Saturday, February 19, 2005

Woman who ran with the wolves domesticated Posted by Hello

Icebox of stuff I like

Send me the kind of winter I like

The kind that layers my breath with fog

Courier all the stuff that falling orange leaves are made of

Buy stamps worth eleven bucks this Wednesday

And stick them on to the paper of memory

Thump it well so it wouldn't come off

And mail it to me


A few birds would do very well

Pigeons, Sparrows and even Crows will do

But Humming birds I'd really like

I have sent you several crisp kind of words

If they happen to scratch your surface

Admonish them but after a while

Or send them back in a locked box of ice

And lose the key.

My favourite picture Posted by Hello


This is the body that I live in

My skin…my flesh…my bones

My hair and my nails…

All of them are parts of a plethora of elements

My body is due to each one of them

There will come a day when this body will be overdue

And then two loving bodies in another time

will take a loan of happiness from the Elements again

Another sun's rays will deliver me to you

You will find me waving from the crowd

Again after a few lifetimes

I will raise my hand and wave to you

You must recognise me in that moment

You must not forget.


Love of my life Posted by Hello


You could ask me

Why the compulsive expressionism?

And why the hunger to speak on my behalf?

Why should I be so hungry all the time to taste

Taste the very blood that love and life is?

Eat the flesh of my circumstance and receive every moment

with reverence that only a monk has

The monk who happens to be a thousand years old and one

I could tell you several of my reasons

One being that my expression is the reverence

of that thin old monk who survives on it

The joy of my expression is what he has been meditating for

A thousand years and one

You could ask me

What do you want of me?

I could tell you to revere my expression of joy

And bask in it

Shailaja took this  Posted by Hello


What is it that one searches for?

Like a cold desert wind tiny words chill your bones for no reason at all..

You live in the cracking paint of indifferent walls of a home that isn't really there at all…

You just imagined it because you would have liked for it to be real…

You need to have a definition all of a sudden, they tell me that there is a gargantuan thing called an identity and it's made up of several things that one can list down as matter of factly as the grocery list that you might have made as a matter of the day's course…

Let's talk about the first thing that anyone will ask you

- Are you gainfully employed?

Yes that is one of the things that paints the picture that everyone else in this world is supposed to identify you with…

What is the point?

The point is success? Now is it?

Is it the fact that you are supposed to be this person doing all the right things at all the right times and doing it at the satisfaction of everyone that you know and happen to have the good fortune of knowing…

What do you want to do?

Right now at this moment…

REALLY what would you rather be doing?

Would you rather be some place in the past or may be some place in the future… anywhere but here like the movie title goes … and they will tell you that you are supposed to be living in the present all the time… I wonder why? What is the great mystery of having to live in the present and what is the great compulsion to do so for that matter. Why the guilt when you take time to sleep just for the sole purpose of having a dream that is so bizarre and unreal that it beats the daily reality of life any day….

What is the point?

The point is survival? Now is it?

To live is to eat everyday and make sure that your heart beats regularly and you get enough sleep and exercise…hmmm … one wonders about that, now if that's what it's all about then why do I need to have new shoes so badly? Do I need them or is it the picture, the unfinished picture of me that needs those shoes

Those shoes that are preferably with high heels like the one some vague image of a supermodel wears or the kind that one sees on women with 22 inch waists, you don't wear shoes because of your waist now do you? But it's better when they are supporting a 22-inch waist… right?

And then another time you may be in the trap of doing what it is that you would have been doing had you not been in the so called ' middle classness of life' that's a phrase someone I know uses ever so often and he gets me to wonder… is it really the mosquitoes and the stench that make you want to leave a place? Isn't it always the people that want to make you want to pack your bags. Isn't it the fact that you would rather not be in a situation that needs you to be in a state of permanence of any sort because there is the monster of boredom waiting at the other end of the rainbow.

So what would you want to do. Leave one piece of earth to go to another one and then begin the search for that elusive 'quality life and quality time'? What? What? What? What is it that you really want to do, no matter how many times you ask yourself that and no matter how many times you get an answer…. You will never have one that might satisfy you completely…. Simply because you are growing yes growth that indecency is growing in the physicality of your being.

Growth is that process which makes your skin stretch and your mind run faster than your skin is stretching till the time that they can't keep up with each other and that may either result in the state of ' unwell' Unwell will be in the beginning of the physical kind till it begins to affect the ends of your nerves and such things. After the nerves have been corrupted you will in all probability die and that would not be so bad cause then you could go to heaven or hell and ask another question like

What is the point?

It's the same thing you see… this never gets over and it never leaves you … you just grow and then you die and then you grow some more and then you come back as a cow and you wonder why are these strange two legged people insist on depriving my child of the milk that's meant for him and then killing me for food when they could have had potatoes and coke instead.

What is the point?

At Narkanda Posted by Hello

Arms of heaven

This is taken in Narkanda. At first I was reluctant to hike up the little path going from our Dak Bunglow through the mountain... Anshuman convinced me and it was absolutely breathtaking... one of those few places I felt like I belonged.

Beethoven's attic

“Come take a look at my attic!” He said

There are some very old treasure chests

Buried in these dark sloping walls

Some of the Dolls still remember how to smile

Some hooks are still on the walls though unoccupied

Some furs and pictures of animals we loved

The whole place still leaks

You’ll get used to the smell

A square window still talks incessantly

Of all the children who went by

In a span of a hundred years

Come around once in a while

I saw this poem before actually writing it while listening to Beethoven... one of the most satisfying experiences ever.

Thursday, February 10, 2005

This is special because anshuman took it Posted by Hello

Soul of his piano

The soul of his Piano runs through my heart

It looks around carefully like a hare in the woods

My hands can hit the right keys on the paper

He’s writing my destiny with the Piano of his soul

It rains Pianos on my windowsill

The curtain of Roses flutters on my windowsill

I stand inside my sheer white dress and brown shoes on my windowsill

Right behind me he plays the soul of his Piano

And he makes it run through my heart

He’s running down the hill finally just to stop

He’s touching the memories of my cheeks so cold

He explains to me the soul of his Piano

He touches my skin with the light of his Piano

He does this to me…

He does this to me every night of these days

They colour all my pages black... his relentless Pianos

He goes up the spirals and beckons me to follow his trails

He makes me wait just long enough

He takes his bow...

and then once again...

he begins

I love this picture... everyone sees different things in it... would love comments on it Posted by Hello

Horizon's womb

From the middle of the horizon

That has never existed…

I come to you my love..

From the womb of sand underneath the sea

I have been delivered by the waves Into your life…

I’m here if you could hear my skin.

From the castaway rooms of your memory

My life is being lived these days

I’m here if you can remember what my eyes looked like last year.

Will you love me like the womb that I came from…

And remember all my colours?

Or may be if you sometimes forget you will cause me to be erased

From the cement in this city…

This poem is probably the only one which c ame to me when I wasn't sitting down to write... I was walking towards the beach and the first few lines took shape... it's written for Anshuman my husband who works ever so hard to keep the Mrs. happy. Thank you!


Cybill my friend was kind enough to fix my nose and soften my face beyond recognition! Posted by Hello

Tuesday, February 08, 2005

Unsung songs on Sundays

And then there are days of endless cups of warm tea

Of sleeping in the arms of a cozy Sunday

Of having seven drops of rain on my lips

Of having a vision in your mind of silver

These are the days of an evening playing the shy bride

Of allowing the roughness of an old sweatshirt to touch your skin

Of watching airplanes above the clouds

Of three flyovers and several fast trains

Of a Bus Stop and brilliant orange trees

Of careful reading of the cards of fortune

Of knowing warnings and pleasures

Of songs forbidden to be sung

Monday, February 07, 2005

Attempt at coolness Posted by Hello


One night several years ago I heard a whimpering sound... I went down the lift and found a very small emaciated puppy shaking in the December cold... I thought he was one of the puppies that were playing in the ground next to my house so I tried to leave him with them but they chaesd him away... He was obviosly lost so I took him home and he was sick for days... couldn't even stand up on his legs properly... I got him his shots and then he was fine...

I kept him for a few months and we loved each other... then I had to be away from home for work and he was miserable... I couldn't keep him so I left him away from the house... he came back to our neighbour's house and they brought him home... finally I found the brood that he was born with in another building... the building people were taking care f the other puppies and the mother was also there... so one night I left him there and for a while he just sat on his hindlegs and stared at me... I knew and he knew... he made it easy for me... he just turned around and walked away... this time he didn't come back.

Sunday, February 06, 2005

Gizmo and I Posted by Hello

Nothing in particular

Nothing in particular is a film I made nearly six years ago... it ran into all sorts of trouble with the faculty as it didn't exactly have a very positive view of the Institute acording to them... I thought it was entirely an individual's thought process and that's it... finally I did get to make it as the picture below proves.
Here are a few lines with which the film ends...

Today at this time in life you sit with your tears behind your eyes, your voice behind your tongue, your head hurts, your eyes hurt... you must have forgotten to drink water as usual.
So many people have walked through the alleys of your mind, so many have strayed into the cubicles of your heart that your memory walks out on you saying, " When are you leaving? "

Making of the film "Nothing in particular" Posted by Hello

Cooking loneliness

One day may be one day

We will write an anthology of loneliness

We will define it in great detail

We will break it apart and may be even analyse it

We will discover the roots of it

In the eyes of someone lovable

You will find it in their minds

You will find your loneliness

Reflected through many windows…

It will look back at you

From the glass outside large shops

From the chair in front of a computer screen

From a sofa that sits next to you

One day may be one day

We will find loneliness…

Hanging from a broken telephone chord…

We will buy it off the shelf..

Pay for it with credit card love

Chop it up finely

And cook it well

So it would stop tasting like bad coffee.

Cultural day at the Institute Posted by Hello

Thursday, January 13, 2005

Meetings with the little Buddha

There sits a little Buddha in my shelf

He talks to me about glowing trees of light

He sits there asking me to close my eyes

He sits there trying to get my attention for a long time...

The Buddha again today

He peeped at me like the child of a cloud

He smiled at me a happy ray of a smile

I could fly tonight

Buddha peeped at me again

in the sheer beauty of life…

And then again

I felt the Buddha

speak to me through the pollen happy

stem of the Gulmohar flower

behind an office wall

He thanked me from the eyes of a new friend

whose desk they adorned because of me...

Sometimes I think he is looking at me

from the coffee

He listens to me and replies in the memory

of an innocent romance of a writer

How do you explain to a bus full of people

that a ray of sunshine through concrete buildings

makes the writer smile

for a moment there...

he feels like the Buddha.

That little Buddha writes himself

in the innocent poetry of a lover

I meet that little one

on a computer very often..

He laughs very loudly

in a child’s ambition singing with the flute...

laughs ever so loudly in his faith

that lives within the faraway notes

of fame in a possible future.

There he sits in the beautiful pattern

on the frosted glass on my window…

He comes to me like an invisible smoke

and takes shape…

Slowly forming himself

into a funny idea.

There he was talking again

on the side of the road

Standing between a housemaid

and a security guard’s innocent flirtation.

that little Buddha

born from the wombs of a million suns…

That little Buddha

infinitely more immense

than the million suns and earths…

That little Buddha finds

his place in the smallest cubical of a cat’s heart…

And then he paints himself in my mother’s eyes.

I have memories of having seen him sometime before

One hazy evening in the shadow of a sunset in pitch black murky water…

And he was still beautiful!! …still beautiful.

I think that now when I can see you

May be one day I will understand you…

May be my limited vision will widen itself to accommodate you

And make a home in the center of my soul

It is in my darkest moments that you speak to me in the clearest of voices

You speak to me like a child in my own voice…

You speak to me in my sense of wonder at my own body…

I see it shining like a crystal…

The crystal that you took such pains to Cut finely and polish with care.

In the middle of the smallest moment in a white flash of blinding light

I have seen you smiling mysteriously in your comfortable nakedness…

And I have seen this morning a stark naked madman walking unabashedly…

Why was everyone else uncomfortable except for him?

You have your ways of increasing my questions O little Buddha

Sometimes when I fall in love…if only for a while

In the most transitory of times and the most impermanent of arrangements

I find you smiling in a unique moment of infatuation…

for a man as sweet as young white flowers

You sing the sweetest sounds in the slowest of songs

You sing through the threads of the violin professional

And you sing through the first screechy sounds of the learning child

You sing in unison with the voices of a thousand monks.

And then you sing in the drops falling on the virgin shy earth

Your music flows through my veins and collects in the pool of my heart

And then you touch the bamboo stem and sing through the flute

And then you play the violin again…

ah you play it again…in the midst of heaven.

They must be making pianos from the wood cut from your heart

They must be playing your eyelashes that are the black keys on them

They are meddling with our hearts through your Pianos

They are making inroads into our souls through your pianos

I am writing you through electronic keyboards

I am remembering you through an electronic product

I am looking at you on an electronic screen

I am discovering you in my personal blue coffee cup

You have begun to exist not only in the music

but also in the hiss on the tape

How could you be everywhere at the same time?

How did I miss seeing you all this time?


You scream through a million bagpipes

and mountains soar in my mind…

And then I meet the lonely shepherd chasing his flock

You show yourself in the valley on the edge of which I stand

You stand behind the horizon and you dwarf it

You flow through a solid stone…

You freeze yourself and turn to ice and

You make a stone falls apart and it melts.

It melts under your cold gaze…

You dance in a circle amongst the oldest tribe of my kind

You dance in the first dance of all

You have held all our hands at one time or another

You have danced before and beyond time

If you ever come down to explain to us our existence

I want to be the first one in line for the invitation

You cannot forget me.

You cannot disown me.

I have seen you.