#nature's child

i wander into the thick of the jungle
empty my bundle of short term goals
nature throws me into a void
Where millennium blues evaporate
And leaves me
Untainted and whole .
I Dig up Seetha from the chaos
that’s my mind
and find me a home where wild lilies grow in my backyard


Not another cluttered confined space. Grilled.
A waterfall and jasmine twines make my garden ,
And me. Pagan high priestess in Nature’s own shrine

I Sleep. Rock to and fro . Light and easy,
On a swing , made from all the Whispers of the forest, .

I stir at the first kiss of dawn,
hear the tussle of the leaves as the dew falls

and i steal away to my little shrine
to sing my simple songs
and make offerings of tulsi leaves ,incense

when the black that’s leftover of the night
saves her farewell embrace
to trip me,over the gnarled roots of the banyan, the hurt on my foot
I’ll give away As I plunge into the biting cold of the river , A stage all set
For the golden sun. to tap-dance on.
a thousand birdcalls, playing nature’s favorite tune

One moment of dawn with the sun, earth and the skies
And I am banished Princess no more,
But Nature’s spawn.
The earth is alive. She talks to me.
In the exalting song of the morning
.

#tuesday morning rain

watching rain on tuesday morning
it started with a murmur
rain.this morning.started like a soft murmur,
like the sounds of the audience before a show.
a little excitement.

i sit and listen to the rain murmur
on the steps of the verandah
the night has not retreated yet
there are traces of bluish blackness
in the corners of the garden

and our neighbours mango tree
is sundenly shy.she's wet, her branches drooping
with a river of june rain
the evergreen twine on the grills of the verandah
dry but for brillant drops on webbed leaves
like diamonds of a nose ring.

my teenage niece ventures out,
with an umbrella
bare feet on cold pebbled courtyard
the frays of her pyjamas wet from brushing past the rose bush
her fingertips teasing water sitting heavy
on the edges of Orchid leaves.
and the drummer in the rain orchestra
plays a new tune on the streched parasol

and then the murmur becomes a shout.
water pours down,drops all in a line
like in a queue. and thank god otherwise
it wouldn't be decent on the potted plants
would have wedged the flowers from their stalks
would have made a tear in my neice's umbrella
and sharp holes on the garden wall

#Little men

#I want to be colorblind( published)

I want to be colorblind.
See everything in harmless black and white
For I wouldn’t stand and stare at the waking sky
I would rather make us some black coffee in the white of the kitchen tube.

Wait, then I’d throw away all the crayons I have collected as a child and use
Clean abrupt lucid Charcoal for everything .
Make modern art like a frozen question marks that you wouldn’t understand but
buy anyway and hang on your drawing room walls

I want to wear a big band aid on my soul
So then I wont be an open wound
To hemophiliacally bleed
To the bruises on some stranger’s knee

I want some pragmatic rubber soles
For my high heels
So that next time I waltz
I don’t spill my silly soul on your perfect white realistic floor.

I want to cut free every stretched violin string in me that
Resonates to your slightest touch, and sometimes even when you don’t bother to,
I want to plug up every tiny hole in that long bonus flute
Use it like a telescope instead, for filthy thoughts, never make music again

I want to be a she-Obelix, throw estrogenpowered menhirs, win battles for my Gaul
Or Asterix , only taller
I want to be carried on shields ,
make magic potions ,
Don’t mind being Cleopatra too (after painful tedious plastic surgery on my nose)

But
I am a court jester, Painted smile all over my frown
Another village bard who has to sing her songs aloud,
Without her harp,
Without battle weary heroes, without roasted boar, without the triumph

And I can sing even without the wine
For my Gaul is in Ruins
And I need only echo her wails.

#God was an alien

god was an alien
shipwrecked in a blue planet
for a week.

Blue skies
blue seas
Too much of blue, he might have thought.

Maybe he got too lonely
maybe he was a little inspired
i hope it was not because he got too bored,

Anyway he got a little busy
Made MAN. jUST Like him
and woman too, and did a great job too.

It was all good.
the twilight sky, the sundrenched hills
dragon flies, the bumblebee, the spotted deer

And then it was time for him to go
he might have taken soveniors of his stay
a shell or two,a lock of our hair, peacock feather

and just as he turned the corner
he must have looked back a little guilty
a part of him trapped in some moulds of clay

#broken nest

a wagtail with a funny chewed-up tail
has been nesting under the sunshade for quite a while
while I iron in the adjoining room
they make a lot of noise
strange smooching sounds
squeaks and calling out


yesterday night it rained
and the wind raged as if possessed.
in the morning the maid
found the little wagtail's nest
once cosy and a sacred home
a bunch of brittle twigs.wet, some torn


and our dog Tiger had a fledging or two for breakfast
there was a lot of frantic calling from the garden
and i rushed out to rescue yet another.
i shut the baby bird in the sturdy
the motherbird promptly sat guard on the guava branch outside.
and Tiger banished to the garage, admonished and shamed .


at sundown after work I found the motherbird
still on her slender swingy perch
and her little one had made it to the window sill.
the motherbird cajoling flight, her offspring reluctant.
and their nest of brittle twigs lay wasted underneath.
one night was all it took, one windy wet black cruel night.


and to think yesterday night i almost broke my cosy nest
i lay awake listening to the storm
outside the winds blew as if possessed
playing with my wavering thoughts.
but by sunrise , the storm abated
both within and without.


and before me as i watched -the little wagtail like magic
flew off my window sill to join his triumphant mother.
And I hope they have learnt their lesson well,
Next time I hope it’s a sturdier nest

#from a plane window

last week while flying Air deccan
i didn't sleep , i watched clouds instead

and wondered if they were souls of the dead
or that part of us that's light enough to rise really high

no its not easy for the whole of me to go that far
but in tinges, in spurts and small measures. yes

my sleeping infant soul, the part of me that prayed today
that day i could gve my gold bracelet away

the me when i fed a raving madman fish curry and rice
he , suddenly docile . like a lamb.

not the soul of yesterday night, in the pub
that will never float. would fall on its belly even if it tried.

clean thoughts will float iam sure
and love. selfless and true,all white. light.

# for cousins getting married

cant say much
but if the spouse is a male
ask to see his toothbrush
if its much munched
the man wont treat you delicate
but he would love you.
just be ready for a rough ride.
if its just like new
he'd give you a lot of space
speak politely
but love? well if you are lucky.
and the would be bride?
most importantly should have good teeth
otherwise she wouldn't say much
lest you see her fillings
and her laugh-hesitant.
and you have to live with wife
who never laughs with a open mouth.

#for the sun, the earth and a day

i am learning sanskrit
for i want to be a priest
iam thirty three and not very pious
but still.

take an year off
from family, from normalcy
Journey to the ganges
in a snake boat and an oarsman

wear white,
shave my head
i know i will look shocking
then have cold sandalwood paste smeared on my pate

and for an year
every morn stand with good white bearded men
with the ganges holding me by my hips
and sing a welcome to the sun when a new day is born

iam sure i will know the right words then
words that the sun is sure to hear
and he will stand on earth's blue doorstep
and smile as he comes in.

and live every moment with caution
breathe timidly, and tread on mother earth
so light that she'll hardly know.
speak in hushed whispers all day.

stand on my headand meditate on life,
or dash around the traffic in big cities handing out pamplets that preaches conservation
or make music with a tampura and sing bhajans to the Sun, earth and a day
or water all trees by the roadside.

and every evening sit by the murky river
wail and break my glass bangles on her stone steps
and mourn the death of day
under twilight's funeral pyre.

ps: for World environment day

#Aby

the annual fair
at our grandfather's village
Dinner at our maternal uncle's
outside its a carnival of candles
and coloured huge umbrellas with silver bells
the 30 temple drummers in white dhothis
and in between a band playing shocking bollywod music
an elephant
the church choir
all pretty girls in white veils singing from a tempo traveller
the old bearded priest cradling the cross
the glass bracelet sellers
and coloured sweetmeat
soh ! just the right place to buy a bed,sweet and tangy sugarcane juice
or even have your fortune told

inside
the kitchen, wet with memories
red oxide floor
round steel thalis
high wooden ceilings and the creaking fan
the fresh smell of hay
the soft sounds of sleeping cows
my sister and i drowning in a sea of relatives, all garish. Rich.
" how many kids?" " what does your husband do?"queries are so out of place
when one is mellow . a little limp.for one is back in a childhood haunt.

but this house. still an oasis.
now that we are in our thirties
we dont miss our grandparents much
and can come here more often without feeeling
that ache.this house were we were loved so much carresses us
. Opens out its stone arms like an embrace every time we come
.and we sit on a once favored window seat
and allow ourselves to be weighed.

and on a wooden bench at the little dinning room
just like he always sat Is Aby.
our mother's cousin.retarded,unschooled
now touching 40.
His hair tumbling on to his face
is salt and pepper.
otherwise he is just the same.
the same bruises on his knee
the same smile.the slurred speech.
same white shirt.

and he talks of how he chases his cows
off the just planted banana trees
and how his nephew got himself a car
he shows us the most recent bruise
when he fell off the mango tree.
The turtle in the well died some ten years back
that the new priest smokes like a chimney.

and outside the carnival rages on
and the night sky is galore with fireworks
its time for the church procession
and everyone is outside with lit laterns
but my sister and i
sit listening to Aby talk

we sit like how one huddles around a fire.
snuggled in old memories.