September 27, 2011

Hello ?

Her first words over the phone, seem to drip fear.
She takes his name, as if it is a sensitive quivering probe, to bring back messages.
She has been away from him for so long now.
Who knows what  might have crushed the delicate thing that trembles between them?
Slowly her voice gains in strength and laughter.
Only to become sullen with the heaviness of what she holds back, too complete to be told.

September 19, 2011


At the end of the day, as the lights dimmed in her eyes and
darkness enveloped her, a chant rose somewhere deep inside.

Sajh bhaile
Sajha ghar ghar ghume
Ke mora sajh
manayo ji

September 15, 2011


Yesterday, she had felt this urge to paint her toenails silver.
They shone in the dark now, like five silver coins.
Each of a different denomination.
Making the most peripheral part of her, a precious treasure.


September 14, 2011

Let's talk

She sits down like a much younger woman;
with one bare foot tucked underneath her and one knee drawn up to her chin.
She then picks up a hair clasp from the coffee table,
brings her hair up behind her and fastens it in a tiny tight bun,
with this clasp, which she takes from her teeth.
Pulling a curl forward to frame her face,
at last, she turns towards me to speak.

September 12, 2011


It continues to amaze her how little  it takes to comfort a child.
How little a child asks of a parent, how little a parent has to give !

September 11, 2011


She woke up last night, hot with sweat pouring down her in fine ticklish rills.
The flimsy cotton of her dress clung wetly to her back.
She threw off her thin nightdress and stood in the middle of the stiffing room.
The grey moonlight from the two windows lay around her, folded in neat triangles.
She stood there waiting to be sealed, gummed, stamped, posted.

The Arrangement

September 10, 2011


She thinks that overground trains, are the way to travel.
The train does not simply appear as it does underground.
In underground, she feels that the train should just be there, and then be there.
But with the overground, she waits and quite happily at that.
When she sees the train rounding the corner under the vast azure sky,
She smiles a private smile.

September 8, 2011


Just at the base of her neck, near the clavicle, she has this birthmark.
It is kind of small and florid - shaped like a tiny heart.
She saves up all the love she receives, in this little heart.
Only to give it back manifold, from the bigger one.

September 7, 2011


Whenever she goes to the local grocery store, she pretends that it is her first time.
She never makes any shopping lists of things to buy.
Instead she would drift through the aisles at her own pace.
Browsing, stopping, smelling, touching - in a world of her own.

September 6, 2011

The waiting Game

She always feels that loneliness is underrated.
She knows that everyone,at some point in their lives, must face their share of solitary days.
She herself had chosen a path of life, that could have turned out to be relentlessly lonesome.
But, somehow, she always manages to find company and comfort in the little things in life.
A good book.
The memory of a good joke.
A bluesy track.
She waits patiently, knowing that the best is yet to come.

Only Yesterday

September 5, 2011


Her eyes are cushions of sadness, one can sink into them; put their feet up, letting her grieve for them.
The eyes of an emotional prostitute,
His eyes are puffy, dented like lemons torn across and squeezed, dried lemon rinds, tough and ochre, curled in against the sun.
The eyes of a drunkard.


September 4, 2011


She has a soft spot for children and loves being with them.
Whenever she hugs them, she looks over their little shoulders to the parents and smiles.
She wants them to know how much she adores their children.
She speaks to them baby words of endearment,too small and too precious, to be shared with you or me.
She regrets that she can never have one to call her own.

September 3, 2011

Type of girl

She is not that type of a girl, you know.
The type who saves up to buy a bust developer and steeps herself in vitamin creams.
The kind who can't even speak to a man unless she's massaged, manicured, moisturized and epilate.
The sort who wears in her dreams a halo of hair where every strand glides disparate of the next.
The type with keratin tutored by the right chemicals in the right direction.
The kind whose skin carries the sempiternal flush of estrogen.
The sort whose mammary achievements stop just short of the bizarre.
The type whose legs are interminable and delicate as those of an ostrich.
The sort whose childish buttocks look like those that has never been sat down on.
She is much more than that. 

Fly away, Peter.


Mottled light through the raindrops on the window, make shifting shadows on her skin.
As warm thick folds of the blanket, hide wordless fingertip games.



When behind a young man on a bus, she finds herself staring at his neck.
The urge to touch it is almost overwhelming.
And then he scratches it, as if he knew.

The Autograph Man


She always associated pain with colors.
It was easier to concentrate on color instead of pain.
By now, the pain had acquired a spectrum.
The brave colors were for the pain that had her screaming, tearing at her clothes, bloody-lipped.
Earth tones were the deep aches, gnawing, cold, feral.
The pain very close to death, she felt would be very special.
Purple, the soft dark purple of velvet.
Almost black.
Color revealing itself only in the chance twitch.

The Arrangement