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See the tree, the brown leaves fall.

Be the flea, the clown seems tall.

Ride the clown, the circus fool.

Hide the frown, the mirthless mule.

Donkey ride, the shoreway treat.

Wonky slide, the broken feet.

Aching legs, sit on the grass.

Breaking eggs, and breaking glass.

Shattered window, open door.

Scattered hedgerow, oaken floor.

Wooden planking, dance away,

Hooded monks in chapels pray.

Ask for peace, thank for gift.

Masked police, tank for rift.

Tear the curtain, look for me.

Bear the burden, see the tree.

Alcoholics Anonymous

The vodka bottle sits on the dresser

half empty,

half dead.

The setting sun reflects off the smooth glass,

creating a prism of rainbow light.

It could almost be beautiful,

almost be perfect, if you don't stare too hard.

don't get to close.

No one would ever know

that the stale smell of liqour sat so thick

it seemed to seep through the paint in the walls.

No one would ever know that empty bottles

happened often around here,

as if they grew from the weeds in the yard.

And no one would ever know

how often those lips kissed those bottles

in a romance all their own...

She sits on her bed,

half empty,

half dead.

The setting sun reflects off her smooth cheeks,

making her skin glow abnormally warm.

She could almost be beautiful, almost be perfect,

If you don't stare too hard, don't get too close...

Rusty & I

He was as soft as rainwater - the day he came to our house. He came in our car, snuggled between my mom's arms. Just a little over 2 months. The most incredible deep dark brown flesh, peering through greenish brown eyes. We called him Rusty, the same day.

It was monsoon of 2001, I remember. His jittery paws were hesitant on the gravel and his little body jerked a little every time a new pair of legs approached him. "Surprise Sherry. We got someone for you," my mom's mischevious grin got me on the driveway. That's how I met him. He found the middle of my arm as his anchor and looked at me expactantly that he was home. Was I his new mumma, sister, brother, master??? He was pulled out of a pile of puppies, nestled next to his mom. In alien, non-furry, distinctly two legged environment; this was his first moment.

He didn't like the car at all. Especially when it moved. Movement to him was four kegs or maybe two. He had not yet invented the wheel. He would lay behind my neck in stoneage despiar, not rigid, but heavy, as his bladder would empty each time even later, and the black leather seatd were puddled under puppy rain. He would always stagger out the same way, as though it were the hold of a slave ship and hm left aboard for six months or more. And it still is a task to pull him in. His size may not be manageable, but in mind he's still two months old.

The tug of war and the reverse fetch is still his favourite sport. Mariah Carrey is his favourite singer. She sings him to sleep even today. He sleeps outside my room even though I am not there. He hates being left alone and tears up his world apart in protest, finding the naked floor his sleeping companion often. Storms and Diwali nights are distinctly hated. He loves to whistle and he is amazingly good at it. If I'd known better, I could swear he's a Janis Joplin incarnate. He rebels, growls and has the most guttural barks. But he loves endearingly. He still meets, greets, awaits everybody the same way. Gravity, head down, feet up and Rusty on top - always. He still snuggles under our legs, one at a time, after taking three customary rounds under them. He slumps, slouches when he doesn't want to eat or walk and maybe sit in the green a little longer. He still shies away at eye contact or if you kiss his nose. He still calls you traitor if another dog smells or takes a fancy to my hand. He's smell, investigate and sulk till you hug his frame and say, "Sorry Rusty!"

But at the heart, he knows he's grown older. His limbs crack a little, everytime he tries to move a little more enthusiastically. He's still a crazy diamond. His face is greying and the corners of his mouth are drooping. But call cat, good ole' friend Brutus just once and he comes running straight for the leash yearning to be lead out. Rusty will be eight this April and its been six months he's grown apart from me, instead of together. This time, I'll let him lead me out the door for our walk to water the greens. I hope it's monsoon again. Rusty loves the rain. We ponder and prolong the rain in our heart and have let the floodgates open together.

... In every life, some puppy rain must fall.

A day at the Movies

Some days you wake up with a resolve. To put things right and to bridge the gap from acquaintance to family. To marvel in sincity and hold wonder in abridging visions into a montage of feelings. Amidst cups of chai, coffee, smokes and some overdue Goa sand, S&I, found two moments of celluloid that would go down in the annals of Z’s history.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button for afternoon, with the hope of finding a faith in an uncertain tomorrow. What an incredible story – and how well extraordinarily told. A life of a commoner, a riveting tale, of life in the reverse. A blueprint reeling backwards, all portrayed in the graphic texture, rewound. Like Mr Gateau’s reverse clock at Louisiana Train Station. Or the boy, born with arthritis on the day the World War -1 ended, who dies of dementia as a one year old wrapped in a crocheted shroud. An ordinary life lived with an extraordinary gift and the ability to watch many dawns on the pier.

Milk, the story of a queer revolution that made you believe that fate can be altered if devotion and belief be by your side. Nothing could be more endearing than to hear the silent rumble of a many thousand rising in a single echo of recruited fervour. When boys were boys and handsome butt cleavage all too pretty!

Now back in my insulated ivory tower away from the great revolution, thinking of the 7th lightening and hoping for thunderstorms within the self. Thanks S, for the love, movies and the sand. Jim Carrey can wait a day. :-)