To lose someone is never easy
and to be reminded of the loss is even more distressing.
But...
all the tears
all the pain
all the grief
all the disdain
all the grey
all the decayed butteflies
all the wilted roses
all the santised corridors of blue death
This one photo feature of Pulitzer prize winner, Renee C for her work on a mother and her son battling with cancer speaks to me, whispers shadows in my ear. How can I not listen and tell..... Sure you can hear. Right here.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Things we do
I don't mean to be lovesick
But for S ...
Those bandy words within our locked arms
And lean your restlessness against mine
We go unknotting the web they bestow
As you lay down your history against mine
When they take your name in your absence
Their awed caesura thrown asunder against mine
How you allay your ditzy, dancing moths
To cross your salmon flame against mine
It is in our little battles in the dark
While you lie lost in the moonlight
That I trace ephemeral drops of your displeasure
Slaying them with kisses, their life against mine
You take my hand and touch my face
You’re the only one I notice in the expansive space
We’re now dancing in shadows of flickering light
Holding each other close, holding each other tight
You kiss my neck and then touch my face
Then kiss my lips in a loving embrace
Time stands still whilst we are together
Feels so good, it seems like forever
He was here and now he's gone . . .
But for S ...
Those bandy words within our locked arms
And lean your restlessness against mine
We go unknotting the web they bestow
As you lay down your history against mine
When they take your name in your absence
Their awed caesura thrown asunder against mine
How you allay your ditzy, dancing moths
To cross your salmon flame against mine
It is in our little battles in the dark
While you lie lost in the moonlight
That I trace ephemeral drops of your displeasure
Slaying them with kisses, their life against mine
You take my hand and touch my face
You’re the only one I notice in the expansive space
We’re now dancing in shadows of flickering light
Holding each other close, holding each other tight
You kiss my neck and then touch my face
Then kiss my lips in a loving embrace
Time stands still whilst we are together
Feels so good, it seems like forever
He was here and now he's gone . . .
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Being Indian
or, The truth about why the 21st Century will be India's. This book, published by Penguin, cost me just Rs 250 and the back cover says that it is for sale in the Indian Subcontinent and Singapore only. How odd. Btw, I have not finished this either - I've been distracted by The Argumentative Indian and my rediscovery of my 500+ book collection from which I've extracted a few old favourites.
I'm also still digesting much of what it means to be Indian, something I rejected being, quite honestly, for most of my rebellious life.
Pavan Varma is a diplomat, his biography seems to imply an erudite, well read and well travelled gentleman who evokes a subtle sense of Pico Iyer in his approach and writing. I'm not comparing the two, no one comes close to Iyer in his distinctly global style, but the faint whiff perhaps of mixing Indian with British with a touch of the world feels familiar. I've only completed the first chapter on the relationship that Indians have with power - political or fiscal - rather than charismatic or physical, and it's been a learning exercise for me. I purchased this book for myself, to satisfy my desire to understand what it means to be Indian.
Being Indian - the title itself is so evocative of the complexity of any nationality, race and culture. I carry an Indian passport, of this I am sure, and my skin is brown, my hair black (let's ignore that occasional colours, shall we?) and my eyes brown. Yes, that means I'm Indian. Ethnically. But what about culturally?
What has changed ? Is it the author's perception of things or is it a more fundamental change in ground realities? Or is Varma saying that the take-off stage has been achieved not because of the middle classes he censured earlier but in spite of them? Varma's book makes for good reading.
But should it also make the Indian in you feel good? It depends. Depends on whether you believe ends justify the means. Depends on whether you accept hypocrisy as a way of life. For Varma's evaluation of the forces that fuel India's launch into the new century makes it clear that there is a lot that is unscrupulous and hypocritical in the Indian's way of life that has served him well. This, a friend, has echoed to me time and again. The one, who has grown up in a literal global village.
But while Varma does draw our attention to the gross inequities and prejudices that are still prevalent in every walk of Indian life, the fire in the belly seems to have burnt out somewhere along the way, the sense of outrage dimmed. The result: the Indian middle class that he urged to introspect or perish may actually feel great on reading his new book.
As the book suggests, India is bigger than the sum of its parts. But the "big thing" that emerges is neither scary nor unstable.
And best of all, I found the book listed on this wonderful website online called Khazana (Treasure trove) - that calls itself a source for hard to get books from India and South East Asia. Just $27 - smiles - only a few dollars more than my Rs 250.
I'm also still digesting much of what it means to be Indian, something I rejected being, quite honestly, for most of my rebellious life.
Pavan Varma is a diplomat, his biography seems to imply an erudite, well read and well travelled gentleman who evokes a subtle sense of Pico Iyer in his approach and writing. I'm not comparing the two, no one comes close to Iyer in his distinctly global style, but the faint whiff perhaps of mixing Indian with British with a touch of the world feels familiar. I've only completed the first chapter on the relationship that Indians have with power - political or fiscal - rather than charismatic or physical, and it's been a learning exercise for me. I purchased this book for myself, to satisfy my desire to understand what it means to be Indian.
Being Indian - the title itself is so evocative of the complexity of any nationality, race and culture. I carry an Indian passport, of this I am sure, and my skin is brown, my hair black (let's ignore that occasional colours, shall we?) and my eyes brown. Yes, that means I'm Indian. Ethnically. But what about culturally?
What has changed ? Is it the author's perception of things or is it a more fundamental change in ground realities? Or is Varma saying that the take-off stage has been achieved not because of the middle classes he censured earlier but in spite of them? Varma's book makes for good reading.
But should it also make the Indian in you feel good? It depends. Depends on whether you believe ends justify the means. Depends on whether you accept hypocrisy as a way of life. For Varma's evaluation of the forces that fuel India's launch into the new century makes it clear that there is a lot that is unscrupulous and hypocritical in the Indian's way of life that has served him well. This, a friend, has echoed to me time and again. The one, who has grown up in a literal global village.
But while Varma does draw our attention to the gross inequities and prejudices that are still prevalent in every walk of Indian life, the fire in the belly seems to have burnt out somewhere along the way, the sense of outrage dimmed. The result: the Indian middle class that he urged to introspect or perish may actually feel great on reading his new book.
As the book suggests, India is bigger than the sum of its parts. But the "big thing" that emerges is neither scary nor unstable.
And best of all, I found the book listed on this wonderful website online called Khazana (Treasure trove) - that calls itself a source for hard to get books from India and South East Asia. Just $27 - smiles - only a few dollars more than my Rs 250.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Criminal Intentions
I refuse to be a victim
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To all those who've been victims of abuse of any kind, remember your offender i some, scared little kid. Never show fear and play safe!
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Story so far
Things that can’t be mine.
I tell I do not want.
That which is not meant,
I reckon I did not hear.
Those who don’t see me,
I never saw in the first place.
I keep myself pleased and stupid,
As though all one needs is - to believe.
Almost there is not enough.
Fallen Angel
Some days I wake up in a daze.
A view from a window, which is still misty with cold breath. I was watched all night? Is that a form I steal? Or was it the air conditioner? I prefer the former. More mystery, more intrigue.
Today is one of those days, the one when I float on air two inches above the ground. The one that holds me in suspended animation. I walk more slowly, almost gliding. I hear less, as if catching whispers from a distance. Voices seem heavier, as if spoken through a static delusion. My frame of vision is blurry on the edges, as if my producer added noise to the bitmap in adobe. I am there. It is me, walking there. But I watch me from an arms length behind my shadow that trails my walk.
A bride walking to her aisle, I hold onto her trailing veil. Only this is no wedding, there is no veil, there is no aisle, there is no man.
He shows, I watch myself, detached from my own self. I fall and jerk back into my body. I feel pain and I cry.
I cried for all those times I should’ve but didn’t.
I cried because I was no longer viewing from where he stood. But watching through the globes of my own iris.
I cried because I had plunged and was now walking, not floating in space.
I cried because I had fallen.
A view from a window, which is still misty with cold breath. I was watched all night? Is that a form I steal? Or was it the air conditioner? I prefer the former. More mystery, more intrigue.
Today is one of those days, the one when I float on air two inches above the ground. The one that holds me in suspended animation. I walk more slowly, almost gliding. I hear less, as if catching whispers from a distance. Voices seem heavier, as if spoken through a static delusion. My frame of vision is blurry on the edges, as if my producer added noise to the bitmap in adobe. I am there. It is me, walking there. But I watch me from an arms length behind my shadow that trails my walk.
A bride walking to her aisle, I hold onto her trailing veil. Only this is no wedding, there is no veil, there is no aisle, there is no man.
He shows, I watch myself, detached from my own self. I fall and jerk back into my body. I feel pain and I cry.
I cried for all those times I should’ve but didn’t.
I cried because I was no longer viewing from where he stood. But watching through the globes of my own iris.
I cried because I had plunged and was now walking, not floating in space.
I cried because I had fallen.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Wounded
"To be in love," he says, "is to be a constant state of anasthesia."
Explains it all... explains me...
But I love to be hungover and drousy...
The numbness with the alive...
I might be falling again!
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