she scoops the cleavages
and concaves of news
- city news, world news,
town news
village news
but the day stretches
long before her
as more news is being
created, churned, rehashed
by the world
to be breakfasted upon
the next day
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Home
a mystical land
a fictional place
opens up through your plane window
mountains yawns
trees slide down
making way
for your bird to land
clouds play
havoc
over mountain top
flat land
the mechanical bird
is warm, silent
crowded markets
colored streets
hawkers yell
dollars deteriorate
the sun
has a special place
to the left,
unfamiliar
from your own land
the roads are tiny
zipping through
breasts of mountains
goats stand tall
eating grass
the wind shaking
their food
its hunger time
you quiver
with the nostalgia
of thirst
flags flutter
calling for the dead
to return
there are chants
mantras
in monotone
the mountain reverberating
in its own echo
till you reach to pay for
toll
you are
2000 ft above
the valleys
the sunlit paths
the birds flying below
the muffled air
the disguised laugh
echo of your own heart
"home"
"om"
"om"
Friday, February 27, 2009
Marketing Plan
Two of my stories, Doors and Sepia are in the anthology 'The curse of the bird and other paranormal stories' and it feels good.The rest of the announcement is as follows:
Dramatized Readings and Dramatic Announcements
Reliance Timeout and Unisun Publications
invite you to the launch of
1. The Curse of the Bird and other paranormal stories
2. The Shrinking Woman and other stories
Two superb collections of over 30 short stories each from the house of Unisun
The volumes bring together several prize winning writers and their irresistible stories. They contain over 60 stories and 45 authors drawn from all over India and outside it. Their backgrounds are as varied as the stories they have written.
and the announcement of the prizewinners of
The Unisun Reliance Timeout Book Club Awards 2008-09
on March 7th
3 pm -5 pm
at the Reliance Timeout Outlet, Cunningham Road, Bangalore
(Parking available in the basement)
*So if you are around you know what I would have told you to do: Go to it!
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
...
In the stealth
of night
when i am hungry
and i peel
a banana
inviting
its mulch between
lip and tongue
thinking of you
does it amount to
infidelity?
Thursday, December 4, 2008
No Signposts
it reminds me of the time we rode
through the countryside
and the signposts
were torn
and dithered
and yet we headed
across the dried grass
and lazing cows
and moving mountains
with just faith
that this is the right road
then we either sang
a sigh of relief
or made a U-turn
but for most part
it was hope
that took
us through
through the countryside
and the signposts
were torn
and dithered
and yet we headed
across the dried grass
and lazing cows
and moving mountains
with just faith
that this is the right road
then we either sang
a sigh of relief
or made a U-turn
but for most part
it was hope
that took
us through
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Uran
With patches of palm tree and the shinning glare of expansive water appearing, I knew we had reached Uran – a place visited once in childhood and frequently in memory.
Finally.
And nothing had changed though things had grown smaller, like the guest house with the titled roof where yesterday’s children ran in and around balconies playing or hiding each other’s things. Later those children were shouted at by their mothers because a half-read book had got left behind.
Had I come back to get it?
No.
I don’t even remember which shelf the book was left on or if there were any shelves at all. I had come to see the intactness of the place. I was but a passing warrior laden with thoughts.
The place was unmarked by sunlight and surrounded by trees winged with cool air. I marked the place from where the cane baths were removed with a dry stick on the sand. These were the hideouts our younger selves had chosen to hide buckets of shells reeking with black silt and salt water, to outwit the boys.
Under the trees plastic tables and chairs lay. We arrived and sat upon a centre table with a hole at its middle announcing its ability to hold an umbrella. Palms and coconut fronds left breezing shadows on our skin. We ate hot fish. The waiters had changed, but obviously. And amidst the roar of the noon sea came the rotting smell of weed.
I set my squinting eyes on the sea's horizon humming inconsequentials and matching word for memory. The silt and the immovable black stone yawned in the noon more bleached and porous than ever.
A seabird made a shrieking call to the quiet.
“Pleasant?”
“Hm.”
Words hung and droplets of sweat etched our backs. A scent of afternoon as contaminated as leftover food, the moo of a distant cow and passing clouds eluded us on the periphery of our minds.
At that moment we could walk into any place restored by memory. We could also live on the other side if we so chose.
Once in a while.
Just once upon a time.
Finally.
And nothing had changed though things had grown smaller, like the guest house with the titled roof where yesterday’s children ran in and around balconies playing or hiding each other’s things. Later those children were shouted at by their mothers because a half-read book had got left behind.
Had I come back to get it?
No.
I don’t even remember which shelf the book was left on or if there were any shelves at all. I had come to see the intactness of the place. I was but a passing warrior laden with thoughts.
The place was unmarked by sunlight and surrounded by trees winged with cool air. I marked the place from where the cane baths were removed with a dry stick on the sand. These were the hideouts our younger selves had chosen to hide buckets of shells reeking with black silt and salt water, to outwit the boys.
Under the trees plastic tables and chairs lay. We arrived and sat upon a centre table with a hole at its middle announcing its ability to hold an umbrella. Palms and coconut fronds left breezing shadows on our skin. We ate hot fish. The waiters had changed, but obviously. And amidst the roar of the noon sea came the rotting smell of weed.
I set my squinting eyes on the sea's horizon humming inconsequentials and matching word for memory. The silt and the immovable black stone yawned in the noon more bleached and porous than ever.
A seabird made a shrieking call to the quiet.
“Pleasant?”
“Hm.”
Words hung and droplets of sweat etched our backs. A scent of afternoon as contaminated as leftover food, the moo of a distant cow and passing clouds eluded us on the periphery of our minds.
At that moment we could walk into any place restored by memory. We could also live on the other side if we so chose.
Once in a while.
Just once upon a time.
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