The abyss of not-being

Serendipity

2012-02-19T04:52:00.001-08:00

I knew you at once.
The stones glittered; the trees gleamed
I started to bud like a March twig
A nodule, a leaf, a nodule, a leaf.

From sea to cloud, so I ascended
Into the empyrean
Now I resemble a sort of goddess
Floating through the air in my soul’s shift
Pure as a puff of snow~

Anon

Amend

2012-01-15T03:17:00.000-08:00

Oh...to break this tilted circuit of pain
and lay the old fears at rest;
to close the tired eyelids of wandering desires,
and fall into a long dreamless sleep.

Fragrance of dreams

2011-12-28T05:29:00.000-08:00

Above a wide sweep in the hills,
a whiff of you brushed my cheek;
and the ripening berries dripped
your parted lips'warmth upon my lips.
it remains unknown to me, on which moment
the night met a sudden end,
but still to my fuzzy head in dreams,
the fragrance of your breath extends...

moody blues

2011-12-27T20:58:00.000-08:00

I know you're out there somewhere
Somewhere, somewhere
I know I'll find you somehow
Somehow, somehow
And somehow I'll return again to you.

The mist is lifting slowly
I can see the way ahead
And I've left behind the empty streets
That once inspired my life
And the strength of the emotion
Is like thunder in the air
'Cos the promise that we made each other
Haunts me to the end.

I know you're out there somewhere
Somewhere, somewhere
I know you're out there somewhere
Somewhere you can hear my voice
I know I'll find you somehow
Somehow, somehow
I know I'll find you somehow
And somehow I'll return again to you.

The secret of your beauty
And the mystery of your soul
I've been searching for in everyone I meet
And the times I've been mistaken
It's impossible to say
And the grass is growing
Underneath our feet.

You see I know you're out there somewhere
O yes I know you're out there somewhere
You see I know I'll find you somehow
O yes I know I'll find you somehow
the words that I remember
From my childhood still are true
That there's none so blind
As those who will not see
And to those who lack the courage
And say it's dangerous to try
Well they just don't know
That love eternal will not be denied

Yes I know it's going to happen
I can feel you getting near
And soon we'll be returning
To the fountain of our youth
And if you wake up wondering
In the darkness I'll be there
My arms will close around you
And protect you with the truth.

Four elements

2011-12-21T03:16:00.000-08:00

Your love
doused
burned
purified.

Winnowed, I fell into you
and grew
deep within.

The glance

2011-12-10T00:15:00.000-08:00

Beams of sunshine
floating towards me;
touching me gently-
The light shining in your eyes.

Spellbound

2011-11-11T03:23:00.000-08:00

I looked my love in the eyes and allowed him to lead the dance.
We danced…and danced…and danced.
I was entranced,
Lost or completely found?
I had never had such a sense of belonging as I did when I danced with Him.
My maker.
My beginning, my middle and my end.
What a Lover he is.

Author unknown

If You Love Me, Really Love Me (Hymne a L'amour)

2011-11-06T18:45:00.000-08:00

If the sun should tumble from the sky
If the sea should suddenly run dry
If you love me, really love me
Let it happen, I won't care
If it seems that everything is lost
I should smile and never count the cost
If you love me, really love me
Let it happen, darling, I won't care

Shall I catch a shooting star?
Shall I bring it where you are?
If you want me to, I will
You can set me any task
I'll do anything you ask
If you'll only love me still

When at last our life on earth is through
I shall share eternity with you
If you love me, really love me
Then whatever happens, I won't care

Then whatever happens, I won't care.

This is a beautiful French song "Hymne a L'amour",sung by Edith Piaf. Here I have posted the English translation,written by Geoffrey Parsons.

French song, courtesy: Mathieu Mercier

In Silence

2011-10-29T12:39:00.000-07:00

There is a meaning beyond words.
You hear it in songs sometimes
and if you are lucky, in poems,
and luckier yet, in silence.
And it’s perfect.
I hear it when Rumi speaks
and when he sings
and when he dances.
But I also hear it when he is quiet.
And it’s perfect.

In Dreams

2011-10-22T11:57:00.000-07:00

A candy-colored clown they call the sandman
Tiptoes to my room every night
Just to sprinkle stardust and to whisper
"Go to sleep. Everything is all right."

I close my eyes, Then I drift away
Into the magic night. I softly say
A silent prayer,like dreamers do.
Then I fall asleep to dream
My dreams of you.

In dreams I walk with you.
In dreams I talk to you.
In dreams you're mine.
All of the time we're together
In dreams, in dreams.

But just before the dawn, I awake and find you gone.
I can't help it, I can't help it, if I cry.
I remember that you said goodbye.

It's too bad that all these things, can only happen in my dreams
Only in dreams
In beautiful dreams.

Pine

2011-10-19T10:16:00.000-07:00

Let's be silent,
Beneath the shadow of the leaves,
Their feet dancing on our hands;
Our fingers entwined.
United.
In this gift of pain.

Photo:Nazia

The Sema

2011-10-14T20:42:00.000-07:00

The real beloved is that one who is unique,
Who is your beginning and your end.
When you find that one, you'll no longer expect anything else:
That is both the manifest and the mystery.
~ Rumi

Hereafter…

2011-09-22T02:52:00.000-07:00

Stay with me, until the dawn has trembled on a leaf,
And the proud old pines have grown bronzed.
Until the sky is streaked with the sunset’s gaze,
And the snow has thawed into the drained marshes.

Photo:flickriver.com

Rumi's Poem - Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan Qawwali

2011-09-21T10:02:00.000-07:00

گهی خندم گهی گريم گهی افتم گهی خيزم

مسيحا در دلم پيدا و من بيمار می گردم

English Translation:

"No I am not roaming aimlessly around the streets and bazaar,
I am a lover searching for his beloved;
God have mercy on me, I am walking around troubled,
I have done wrong and sinned and am walking around wounded,
I have drunk the wine of desire and am strolling around for the beloved...
Though I may seem drunk I am in my senses."

Qawwali&Translation,Courtesy: Dr. Kalim Irfani

Unearthly hour

2011-08-13T11:41:00.000-07:00

This aloneness is worth more than a thousand lives.
This freedom is worth more than all the lands on earth.
To be one with the truth for just a moment,
Is worth more than the world and life itself.
~ Rumi

Ache

2011-08-02T03:01:00.000-07:00

I wish my finger lengths would grow;
And stretch through the night,
The sky, the ocean and the sea~
To reach you.
Hold you.
Keep you.

Beneath the evening sky

2011-07-27T23:20:00.000-07:00

You touched the lines on my palm
Tracing my fate with your fingertips
And the sun like a migrant oriole disappeared
Leaving a crimson trail above the shimmering waves
The mist dripped through the twigs...
But we gathered the twilight in our arms.

Photo Courtesy- A friend.
Location -Goa.

Chris Isaak - Wicked Game

2011-07-25T22:51:00.000-07:00

In stillness of the pond…

2011-07-20T01:37:00.001-07:00

I live happily on shredded moments of quietude.
These moments are picked up at random, here and there, while walking alongside the old familiar banks, stopping by the muddy pits. Sometimes I step back, lean on fences.
Gaze at the sunsets…
Sometimes I just click these amateurish pictures.

P.S: I did not kiss this frog:) I let it leap from my palm and go back into its pond.

Photo: Nazia

Thaw...

2011-07-15T00:19:00.000-07:00

"To awaken quite alone in a strange town is one of the pleasantest sensations in the world." -Freya Stark

Seriously. Travelling is such a drug. Addictive and invigorating. Especially mountains, with their cognac sunsets and icy blue hills.

Most people travel by the rules of the book. The place, the scenic beauty, the hotel, food, shopping malls etc. I follow my heart. Yeah, cliche, but true!
I have my own parameters of appreciating a beautiful place.When I look at a new place; it has to talk back to me, in a secret language...I have to hear that certain special “zing”…inside of me.
And it must appeal to my subliminal senses more than its value as a popular spot.

Aside from some quiet moments, it is my capacity to be a woman in a strange city, without escort or encumbrance that I seek, when I go traveling.
And, I come back with copper tan, truncated nails and tangled hair, but with my heart soaring like an abandoned kite, way beyond the bruised horizons of my inner turmoil.
I feel like a newborn. Wishing to kick off my shoes and go running in the rain.
Clean of all falsities...

And take it from me,next time if you truly wish to savour the pleasures of travelling, you must go alone. You get that essential isolation to be with your thoughts and put them in the right perspectives when they go astray and moreover, these brief sojourns with only yourself as company, will just thaw the frost around your mind, heart and soul, and heal you deep within.

"Internal burning . . . wandering fever . . ." -Kalevala.

Photos- Nazia

My first novel-The beginning

2011-07-12T00:50:00.000-07:00

How do you write the first novel? If you ask me, my reply would be: Mindlessly, robotically and fearlessly. Otherwise, your novel would never see the light of the day.

I wrote my first novel.

People ask, ‘How do you feel?’
‘I don’t know.’ I said. I did not feel the earth move.
Only a huge relief.
Because my book- as my dear friend William Michaelian said about it- “needed” to be written.

Mine is an inscrutable feeling. Yet, I would not deny that like every other writer, I had my share of battles with the onerous work and the pitiless slog. I did go through those sleepless nights when I just couldn’t find the right phrase, the right word and would stay awake to nail them down, until dawn peeped through the windows and I would just slump down in a tight, painful curl; exhausted to my core.
I could still recall those days of anxiety, when my characters would just buzz around my mind refusing to obey, or like a woodpecker they would bore into my conscience, when I ignored them. There were plenty of moments when the cleverest of sentences would spring up in my mind at the oddest of hours and then slip away, disappearing like vapours for want of writing them down at that exact moment of creative flush.

But now it’s over. My first novel, the Holy Grail of every writer’s life, is bounded in paper and print and is out there on the bookshelves of selected shops. Ready to be picked up. To be read by strangers and friends alike.

One cannot deny that it is heroic to write something and publish it, knowing well about the hazards of being read. Because, writing, especially fiction writing is like baring your soul to the world and risk getting rebuffed, hurt, sniggered, ignored, shattered, or restored according to the sole perspective of that unknown reader.
And although we the writers, the solitary reapers of the word, try too hard to send across the message that we are indifferent to fame and appreciation; the reality is that we are basically egotistic attention seekers, who just cannot accept any unfairness that life delivers to us, and go all-out to announce to the world our existence, our heroism, and call them books!

And we want to be loved- for our work!

However, I am completely at loss, when I am required to speak about ‘My Book.’ Most people ask me, ‘What is it about?’
I tell them to read it.Feel it. Know it. But don’t ask a writer to speak. Especially about her own work.
Because, for a writer, as Virginia Woolf said, 'The truth is that writing is the profound pleasure and being read the superficial.'

And a book may appear to mean different things to different readers. Every reader understands the book in his own way. It may not be the writer’s way.
It is our business as readers to know what we like. It is our business as writers to know what we like.
And we both have to be honest to our respective roles and crafts, without impinging upon each other.

Ah, life!

2011-06-02T12:16:00.001-07:00

For our mutual passions, in battles with self,
I present you in gratitude tribute-
My thirsting, insatiate soul.

Photo: Nazia
Location: Dalhousie

Ripples

2011-05-31T06:01:00.000-07:00

There, where dusk on the high hills fell,
I came to you across the dark abyss,
Under your cool lime trees;
To live by your brook, by your calm waters...
I supped happiness, yes, and drank deeply from your stream,
In whole handfuls, covered so gently by your palms.
And in that irradiant moment for us two,
The trees stood still and the world held its breath.

Photo- courtesy Tahir
Location:Corbett

Pipe dream

2011-04-21T00:25:00.000-07:00

Your laughter across the miles;
Scattering low, like delight's faint echo,
It has flown here and now perches upon my heart;
Gurgling and beaming gently,
Like a lake in the shade of the reeds.

Insomnia

2011-04-16T09:04:00.000-07:00

The indifferent stars are distant, and know no anxiety,
But the night, like a black snake coils upon my chest,
Pressing me down.
And the storm within me roars.

Rememory

2011-04-11T09:19:00.001-07:00

The circle of bygone years is closed,
Above the lifeless ice of time.
And memory's snowy whirlwind,
Drift towards the crossroads.
Still for me, there shines your face alone,
Like a bright and guiding Polar Star.

Life

2011-04-07T06:41:00.000-07:00

We drifted away, caught up in the mundane.
In fate’s treacherous ordinariness,
And the sustainability of pain.

You

2011-03-09T05:51:00.001-08:00

We are bound together,
I am the ground
You are the step.
How unfair is this Love!
I can see Your world
but You, I cannot.

Rumi

Meandering

2011-03-05T03:50:00.000-08:00

My heart is my canoe. It treads in the flowing waters of life, lightly purled by the gild of my deepest longings. It is the maverick, dodging into the free marshes ahead and then in self forgetfulness it waits, watching me with its glittering cyclops eye. Rising above the summer wheat fields and grey muddy pastures, it roams amidst the slopes and petunia-leaves, slipping like shadows from the wing of a large eagle.
I gaze on it amazedly. It hums; it stirs; the currents flowing quietly.

My road was long; my journey rough; but I sang I loved and I wondered.

Those times when I sat in a train compartment looking at the flat fields of the countryside, steeped in the fragile glow of dusk, while the trees, rows upon rows, rushed by like raving witches in some shamanic ritual.
I would looking at the sunset blazing on gabled buildings, and force myself to feel blank. Free.

Looking through the glass pane

2011-02-20T07:59:00.001-08:00

That evening in Calcutta, when I was sitting in the Cha Bar of Oxford book store at Park Street.
My table overlooked the busy footpath outside. I was watching the little silver bells of rain, spluttering like an assortment of seasonings in a wet wok.
I was enjoying the rains, sipping the jasmine tea and nibbling at the banana muffins.Outside, on the squelchy street, the cars rushed by, splashing through the sleet of rain, spraying white foam in the misty air.
For a little while, life felt perfect.
Then I saw him. A very old man, bent at the waist, doubled up with life that had passed him by leaving behind its bundle of unlived moments on his back. His beard was scraggly, grey and dirty. Hair matted. And he was wearing a torn lungi with a sleeveless vest that had more holes than a sieve.
He was sifting through a pile of garbage, ubiquitous even in the most posh localities of Calcutta. I watched him. Riveted by the history, writ large on his face that bespoke of a life full of nothing else than pain and misery. I thought probably he was searching for something he has lost or has dropped. Then I saw him picking up a half eaten sandwich from the pile. He grabbed it up and eagerly bit into it.
His bony jaws moved jerkily as he chewed the stale bread, clutching at the insufficient morsel of food, like a hungry child claws at its mother’s breast.
My cup of tea turned cold. So did my body.
I froze, like hoarfrost.

I left the table and rushed out.
Outside the bookstore, I looked for him. The spot was empty. The pile of garbage was still there. The cigarette butts, twisted tissues, crumpled burger wrappers, banana peels, orange rinds, the swarming flies... The last bit of hardened sandwich crust was lying there on the floor. It must have been too hard to chew perhaps, and he had thrown it back.
But he was nowhere. I stepped out, on the street. Rain fell on my head. All I saw was grey fogginess. The slanting rain was still falling relentlessly, filling up the puddles on the street.
It must have taken me exactly two minutes of settling the payment for my tea and rushing out. In two minutes he was gone. As if swept away by the rain. As if he was never there. But that forlorn crust of bread was the mute witness that he had been there. That he had stooped onto that pile...
All I wanted to do was buy him a cup of hot tea. A fresh sandwich. Talk with him, maybe. My infinitesimal bit of humanity.
I still cannot remove his image from my mind. Like a black sludge he is lodged inside my conscience.

Photo-By- Nazia

Sluiced

2011-02-10T06:03:00.000-08:00

He knew me at once.
The sky glistened; the earth shimmered,
His touch turned me from stone to water.
After ages…I wept.

Do you regret?

2011-02-01T00:53:00.000-08:00

I don’t understand when people say “I have no regrets.” Because, personally I feel that we cannot be truly without regrets. Those viscous dregs of regrets remain stuck at the bottom of our hearts no matter how much we try to deny it. Or scrub it away, for that matter.
The unobtained, the undone in our lives. Remembrances of things we loved once but learned - or had to learn- to live without.
The cherished project abandoned due to certain factual specifications that did not fit into our current lives (and by the time they did we were too disheartened to go back to them)
That hobby, art that one could not pursue and kept postponing until the desire died down.

Regrets caused by lovers who chose to live without us. Regrets caused by lovers who chose to live with us.

The love I couldn’t return. The loving gesture that died in the hesitation of ‘many second thoughts’. The love that I was afraid to express and the person moved on. The romance I allowed to slip away because real life came in between. The love I couldn’t express enough, while my parents were still living.
The friends I trusted and was betrayed. The enemies whom I did not trust would truly harm me, and they did.

The list goes on...

And- I envy you, when you say, “I have no regrets.”

Autumn Leaves

2011-01-15T22:32:00.000-08:00

To Faith

2011-01-02T08:03:00.000-08:00

You and I are old soldiers,
Aren’t we?
Our souls in scars, our hands all chapped and sore.
But aware of each other’s stolid presence,
In night’s delirium and in day’s commotion:
Peaceful at memory’s cross roads.
Sometimes, like a windblown maple leaf in autumn.
Sometimes, like light of stars on a snowy mountain crest.
And we will on this path still continue,
With ice-axe clinging to the very verge.

Karma

2010-12-26T02:37:00.000-08:00

We devise our own expedients, to cope when the going gets tough. Most of the times, when circumstances permit, I prefer to do a (slightly revised) Scarlett O’Hara and just leave, for some place hilly, quiet and peaceful. More often than not, it proves to be a better option than losing myself into the quagmire of ensuing emotions.
Maybe it’s a kind of escapism, but going away serves the most imperative purpose and that is, distance. For me it is vital. Because when I create that distance from the recurring cycle of events that seem to have become some kind of karmic wheel in my life- that of the past and present overlapping each other-it gives me ample amount of peace to think, recollect, resurrect, and breathe.
Often the idea to shuck off the old life, just like the snakes shed their skin, and acquire a new life haunts nearly all of us at some point of time. How wonderful to be able to get lost in some insulated obscurity.
One evening, during one of these excursions, I was walking through the winding paths under a leafy avenue and this thought grew in proportions.
Something shifted inside me with the recollection,and I felt dizzy. I decided to sit on a nearby iron bench that stood under an old deodar tree. As I sat, ignoring the sudden damp chill of the bench, my eyes fell on the trunk of the tree. Many messages of devotion, pledges of undying love, and 'yours forever' promises, were scribbled on the gnarled trunk of that tree by lovers who had passed through this trail. I was about to turn my head when something caught my glance. Down below the trunk, where the latticed backrest of the iron bench had almost obscured the inscription, was something that made me peer closer. Instead of the usual ‘Rani loves Mohit’ with the ubiquitous heart and an arrow pierced through it, someone had scrawled.

Wherever You Go, There You Are.

It stopped me in my tracks. Well, literally. The mist began to dispel slowly from the foggy landscapes of my mind and I felt as if I was watching a new sunrise somewhere in a distant horizon.

For the reason that

2010-12-13T11:38:00.000-08:00

I watched the proud old trees
Standing erect, like awakened conscience.
Peace and silence. No soul to be seen.
Clearly the winter has not finished its story,
And the sun, chained by the fogs
Is still waiting for its belated glory.

The winding paths looped along, and the wild wind above
In a flood of mists blew.
And with our dear earth I am ever in love,
Because you are walking it too…

Breaking Dawn

2010-11-30T10:23:00.000-08:00

Lingering sleep
on crimson edge
furrowed sheets
half open buds
misty breath
a lone star
love’s witness
spent tenderness
the azure wonder
slumbering gold over grasses
like a wave washed through
the chiffchaff sang
morning’s resplendence
And from the panes dripped the dew.

My Papa…

2010-11-20T00:19:00.000-08:00

He lies there under mounds of earth
In a deep, dark, cocoon,
Where no wind blows, no sun shines
The colour of his sky will always be muddy brown
Never a cobalt blue, or a sky blue, or any shade of blue.
Pitch dark.
Cold earth.
He is dead.
They have put him there,
Inside a coffin, wrapped in a shroud
And have walked away,
The mourners
Cupping their palms over their eyes.
Weeping silently, for a life lived majestically.
Time would heal the pain of separation,
Maybe.
Maybe not.
But he will lie there for centuries…
Amidst the sad empty fields.
The distant wind will tear from the trees,
The last of the leaves.
And rip the earth’s skin to shreds
But he will be unmoved
In his regal repose.
And through my soul centuries would pass,
Like a harsh snow eddying and streaming.
And memory’s many subdivisions.
Will dress off their ranks in a glacial spell.
Frost upon frost,
Upon frost.
And…for me,
There is no forgetting, no forgetting.

Muse

2010-11-04T11:49:00.000-07:00

Many a times I have paddled in the still waters of your dreams,
While you lie there, closed, curled, tight, hard, like an oyster.
Your shell pink caution, weaving over my restless feet, as they cut deep and sharp in the white foams.
The sea gulls fly above my head
A brilliant ballet in the crepuscular gloom of twilight.
The grey shimmer, crowning the whirlpool of old desires
Going round and round and round,
Pulling my feet into the dark promise
Of reprieve and reclamation.
A white cloud,
A rainbow,
And a new sail of hope.

Last pain….

2010-10-18T00:07:00.000-07:00

A hazy silence over the moors,
collecting like dregs of broken dreams.

My feet sink into the dead leaves,
and the last of the summer’s leaves
go flying through my soul,
like a flight of falling stars.

The last pain is ending...
in the delicate mist of the dawn.
And above the last of the partings,
the last of the leaves blow down.

Every breath you take...

2010-10-13T11:39:00.000-07:00

One of the most popular 80’s pop classics, “Every breath you take”...by Sting often made me wonder: Is it really a song of love? Or of resentment and an obsessive need to possess?

If you listen with close attention, “Every smile you fake, every vow you break, I’ll be watching you...” actually speaks of possessiveness and resentment.
“Can't you see you belong to me...” is like knitting a slowly capturing net where the strings tighten around you, without you realizing it.

I feel that a little show of possessiveness is attractive. It is heart warming and makes you feel sweetly belonged and cosseted. Only when it surpasses the parameters that it turns venomous and intolerable.
But who decides the parameters? When do you realize that your partner is trespassing your personal boundaries?
In my personal experience, either we realize it too late, or unwittingly become an accomplice to a vicious circle of an intrusive love, and more often than not find it impossible to break the claustrophobic ties.

My partner loves me a lot. He adores me to the hilt. So much so that he hates it if I am away from his sight for more than half an hour. He insists that I tell him the details of every hour spent away from him. He says that he can’t bear to be away from me even for a minute and sulks if I smile at another man, or appreciate another man’s sense of dressing, humour, intelligence or whatever. He wants me to meet only those he approves of. Dress up the way he wants. He says it all with an expression of wounded adoration in his eyes.... and it turns my heart into water. I feel lousy for feeling annoyed at his probing questions. I feel guilty about the indignation that had raised its head a while ago...

As this song by Sting goes, “I am watching you”- when a pair of puppy eyes follow your every move, then instead of feeling seen, heard or loved, you just feel - watched!

These words ‘watching you’ sounds eerie in a relationship. Who wishes to be constantly on a scanner? It doesn't feel like love. It feels like a barbed threat.
And come to think of it, there is a warning hidden somewhere in this game of 'I spy'. It is a warning for you to pack up and scoot, before it turns into a noose where you would be flailing your arms and feet and finding it impossible to come out, and to break free!

On the other hand there are often such situations,when breaking up is not always easy. The danger lies quietly here:

Since I find the breaking up so difficult, I compromise. I feel that by compromising with the situation I have resolved a conflict. I have made adjustments for the 'higher good' of a relationship.
You know, the usual things...children, society, financial issues, love for the partner, even great sex.
I feel miserable and frequently incensed, but I quietly let it pass. Every jealous tantrum of my partner is covered up by guilty pledges. I actually have no idea that I have gone for the last resort and the most uncreative one in a relationship - compromise!I do not realize that compromise is actually an agreement to put myself through constant dissatisfaction and unhappiness, and I have done exactly that. I have missed the abusive streak, the underlying, simmering resentment of my partner. His overriding self-interest in the garb of "intense love".
I have bargained to vacillate between love, dislike, hatred, anger and acceptance...And sad but true, I have stopped loving myself...

But, all is not lost. It never is. If you and I have gone through situations similar to what I have just spoken about, then just remember:
"It is never too late in life and fiction to revise."

Deeper Vibration

2010-10-06T00:38:00.000-07:00

I gathered his words.
His words, like orbs of wool
in colourful bunches, intricate, promising,
knitting hopes, weaving dreams,
loops of desires,
the crossing of fates,
starry fleeces of unslept nights,
combing the fibers of pain, row by row,
the guaranteed tenderness,
deified by the noble words he spoke;
a nice warm sweater,
of enduring love-
the everlasting warmth.

Night-escape

2010-10-04T05:21:00.000-07:00

Some memories rise like yeast
And keep rising, mutating
On nights that are not insulated by dreams.

Some memories rend the night air
Like the distant whistle of the watchman, who shouts in the silent gloom...Stay awake!

Some memories ….
Rest gently, like dried flowers in pages of old books
And fill the night with the mossy fragrance,
Of the meadows of lost love.

Image:pixshots.com

The world must somewhere rest on a light heart…

2010-10-02T09:43:00.001-07:00

‘A list of ten things you love.’ My friend poised her pencil over a spiral notebook and looked at me questioningly.

‘But I don’t love ‘things’.’ I spoke wryly.

‘Come on.’ She urged. She began making tiny squiggles on the open sheet of paper. She was itching to write.

‘Seriously. I have never loved ‘things’. Only people.’

‘But I need to make this list about all my friends. Ten things they love and ten things they hate. Stop being mulish now.’ She glared at me.

‘Ah, now you are talking. I can give you endless list of “things” I hate.’
I closed my book and smiled at her.

‘Ok, shoot. I will start with the hate list first.’ She flipped the page of the notebook and hastily scribbled the title.

‘Hmmm…where do I begin? Number one is- ‘noise’.’

‘Noise? What kind of noise, noisy people, noisy street…’

‘Empty noise. Senseless noise. Meaningless noises that loud people make on non-issues.'

She bent over the notebook and scribbled, not without some show of exasperation.
‘I write it down as -noisy and loud people.’

‘How rudimentary you are. Okay, here is number 2- excessive show of false power that is not serving any purpose, such as bullying, bragging about money, social status. .’

‘People who bully others and brag a lot.’ She spoke aloud as she wrote, deliberately emphasizing on the word ‘people'.

‘Number 3- .domination, subjugation, communalism, racism.’

She thought for while and then wrote down quietly, apparently absorbed in her task.

‘Number 4- violence. Show of violence only to create violence and to disrupt prevailing peace.’

‘Violent people.’ She wrote.

‘Number 5- Waiting. Number 6- resorting to power play in relationships.
Number 7- refusal to change. Number 8- coping with new problems through old ways. Number 9- creating a fixed meaning out of paradox. Number 10-wet towels on bed. There!’

She looked up and we stared at each other for few seconds, then we both broke into a shared laughter.

She looked down again at her list. ‘However, my point is still valid. Basically you hate people, lot many people.’

‘No. I love people. I hate the above mentioned traits.’

‘But these traits belong to people. Would you ever find a chair throwing wet towels on bed or coping with new problems through old ways? ’ She argued.

‘Most of the things that I mentioned in my hate list from number 5 onwards are the things that I have struggled to overcome in my own self.
When I hate these things, surely I will never allow myself to acquire or indulge in them in my reclaimed self.’

‘Here, here!’ She clapped. ‘Now let’s come down to the list of “people you love, since you don’t love ‘things’. Come on tell us your sordid love stories.’ She poised the pencil again.

‘Hah, that would not fit into your list of a restrictive 10.’

‘You, wicked witch.’

‘Okay, was this supposed to be a serious session? Am I not allowed to play into the mood of the moment?’

‘No. Be serious.’ She frowned, flicking the page to turn a new leaf.

‘All right! Here they are: “My first cup of morning tea taken with ginger biscuits; fairy lights on trees; old bookshops; perfume counters; bear hugs; deep kisses; January rains; my son’s smile; warm apple pie; my own company; fragrance of fresh rose petals…”

‘Wait. Stop. You are on to number eleven. And these are not 'people' list. These are ‘things’ list, didn’t you say...’

‘Didn’t you say it is about 10 ‘things’, in the first place…?’

She threw the pencil at me, laughingly. I ducked.

Illusion

2010-09-25T08:11:00.000-07:00

That loveliness yet lingers warm
Like a glowing ember,
Though you may call this whimsy stuff
Mere words
Of self forgetfulness;
Still my words flock to you
Teeming, streaming
Down on each moment, down on each year
To passion’s limit
In radiant love
In deep longing
In black abysses.

Image: maniac-world.com

I forgive...

2010-09-20T02:12:00.000-07:00

What power has love but forgiveness?
In other words
by its intervention
what has been done can be undone.
What good is it otherwise?

William Carlos Williams.

Booked for life...

2010-09-07T01:54:00.000-07:00

I have loved books so much that it hurts. Especially since I have decided to enter the world of writing them.
There in my bedroom of girlhood were these packed shelves of enough wisdom, knowledge and imagination to keep me going for life. And I constantly looked for my identity in this treasure of other men’s experiences and expressions. In these books I looked for an affirmation to sustain in a world where mediocrity is a crime. Perhaps it is this secret desire to rise above the mediocrity that the desire to write a book came into being.
Believe it or not, writing a book and publishing it is as presumptuous as tapping someone on the shoulder and making a demand on them to stop and listen to you.
However, the decision is always scary at first. To unleash into this rather unfeeling and capricious world the thoughts, feelings and an open gazed vulnerability of deeper emotions; and then lurk around, secretly hoping to be accepted.
Even praised. Even loved.

The Mystic

2010-08-26T01:28:00.000-07:00

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don't go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want.
Don't go back to sleep.

"Listen to the reed and the tale it tells,
how it sings of separation..."
-Rumi.

Image:sologak1.blogspot.com

Trance

2010-08-20T05:10:00.001-07:00

Winds in my bedroom,
Fragrant, heady, moist;
Has it passed your city-Your breath.
Have you just walked past my door?

Farewell

2010-08-14T10:36:00.001-07:00

But my verses lie- like leaves from my soul blown away-
On your road. On the highway.

Photo-Kevin McKay

Bare skies

2010-08-13T08:33:00.000-07:00

I tried to remove it, pick it up and bring home. To decorate a lonely corner. To paint it, put some flowers on it and "restore" it. But,it refused to leave the ground. And then its unyielding silence spoke to me...
This piece of dead tree trunk has opened its soul to the bare skies and to people's feet passing by...

I took the picture, blessed it and left it there.

Photo:Nazia

Photo: Nazia

A kind of Hush

2010-08-05T23:50:00.000-07:00

The night rolls out like a black snake
Hissing few soundless songs…
In the deep shadows of trees
I hear the wind weep, hiding its face in the dark.

*The title is derived from an old Carpenters’ song- “There is a kind of hush all over the world…”

Sleepless

2010-08-03T12:05:00.000-07:00

The dawn breaks-
And the breeze floats in
Like a slow and mysterious river,
To rip out my cold sheet
And stitch the shredded sky.

Image: www.flickr.com/photos/hawaron/344294

Cat Stevens "Wild World"

2010-07-28T22:17:00.000-07:00

Musing

2010-07-27T09:06:00.000-07:00

The mist, the smoke, the ache.
I breathed in;
And flicked off few stories
That burn quietly.

"Now and Forever" JOHNNY DEPP

2010-07-23T00:40:00.000-07:00

Drenched

2010-07-19T23:29:00.000-07:00

This shower of rain.
Blissful; liberating,
Like a love returned.

Photo:Nazia

Wanderings

2010-07-08T01:42:00.000-07:00

‘It is called Jal neti'. He said. ‘This is a yoga procedure in which your “shwas” (breath) and nasal passage gets cleared, your eyes become brighter and eyesight stronger. It has a cooling effect on the brain and is very helpful for migraine, depression and mental tensions.’

He placed the snout of a brass kettle he was holding to one of his nostrils and tilting the head to one side poured water into it. I watched in fascination the stream of water squirting out from another nostril.

‘I know jal neti. But could never muster enough courage to experiment with it.’ I replied. Next moment he fished out a rubber catheter from his cloth bag and inserted it through one nostril. He kept pushing it (to my horror, I must admit) and then drew it out from his mouth.

‘See this?’ he said proudly. ‘This is ‘Sutra neti’. Extremely beneficial for sore throats, chronic cough, adenoids and tonsillitis and all the eye and ear related disorders. It is also effective in harmonizing emotional behaviour.’
I looked at his green- grey eyes, which had turned slightly red rimmed, due to the “netis”

‘Wonderful. You seem to have mastered these difficult procedures.’ I saw a tiny smear of blood on the catheter as he pulled it out.

‘Still practicing. I pushed it a bit faster this time.’ He pointed at the smear of blood and picking up the neti pot poured water on the catheter. The pink smear disappeared in the muddy ground below our feet.

‘Living in India, it’s a pity you never tried it.’ He said wiping the tube with a tissue.

‘We live too close to these philosophies. It’s the distance that provides the mysterious charm.’ I replied.

We had got up from the large boulder near the river, and were walking on the steep path that led to the tree-lined road ahead.

‘India is such a spiritual country with amazing treasures of ancient medicinal remedies. Yoga has helped me a lot in finding my peaceful centre.’ He spoke dreamily.

‘You are lucky. I am still trying to find my peaceful centre.’ Perhaps I spoke more wistfully than I was feeling, because he looked at me again.

‘Do you believe in spirituality?’ He asked.

‘As long as it doesn’t take me away from my hedonistic pursuits… I am shamelessly self indulgent I am afraid.’ I said.

He laughed. His attention was caught by the Langoors occupying the branches of the dense Aadu and Guava trees. He began to click pictures.
The Langoors were quite used to enjoying impartial attentions from foreigners and I actually thought they were preening when the camera flashed. Perhaps a female twirled her hair lock and tried a coquettish smile at him.
Hmmm…maybe.

He was one of those thousands of backpackers who flock to India in search of fun, travel, mysticism, spirituality (whatever) Indian culture, bright colours, yoga, gurus and basically just for experiencing this fascinating multicultural country.
It is a common sight to see them roam the dirty by lanes of Rishikesh, McLeod Gunj, and other Uttarakhand/Himachal towns often on bare feet. Eventually they go back to their organized life back home, taking back the pictures of poor kids, emaciated beggars, filthy slums, beautiful garments, historical monuments, and memories of heat, mosquitoes and pestering hawkers.

He was from New Orleans and had come to learn yoga at one of the Ashrams in Rishikesh. To be a yoga teacher was the dominant drive behind his passion for learning.

‘Shall I take a picture of you’ He turned away from clicking the pictures of Langoors.

‘You talk of me in the same breath as that of Langoors. ’ I tried to joke. He guffawed. Roaring American laughter. For brief seconds he was the person back home; shorn of the spirituality, yoga , netis and India hang-up.
Much better.

‘No. You look very different from these Langoors. That is why.’ He aimed the camera at me.

The Langoors.

Mermaid

2010-07-02T05:31:00.000-07:00

And a million years must pass
Before fins change into hands
Before tail becomes feet, at last
And on the flowing tide, once more
Will you appear here by my side…

So that on a new ground we should stand
So that I should take and caress your hand.

Image: Adam Dorman

Night watch

2010-06-23T08:33:00.000-07:00

I tried to catch it in my camera, but it slipped away, leaving its mystic fragrance behind...
If you look closely, you might find it hidden somewhere amongst these shadows, that lovely Ghost:)

En route

2010-06-17T05:52:00.000-07:00

Drifting across

Bridges of the Ganges- Don't be fooled by the pool of silence.People from all over the country come here to wash their sins in the Ganges.

Close up of the hanging bridge-

There flows an azure wonder.

Location: Rishikesh-India.
Photos- Nazia

A Glance

2010-06-13T03:00:00.000-07:00

Of what my thoughts?
Unknown.
All I knew, most likely
The fate’s shoulder and my own
Rubbed one another carelessly.
That’s all.
Some moments slipped by.
A second or two; a trembling.
And in those eyes I saw a cry,
Of silent yearning.

White space

2010-06-12T02:30:00.000-07:00

I did not stay.
I packed and went alone upon the highway
As we all depart once from ourselves
To find ourselves.

Returning
To our old dreams again.

My heart
Trusting in the future.

And that my passion’s lengthy road
Not uselessly I travelled…

The day I turned heads...

2010-05-16T06:19:00.000-07:00

When I passed out the high school, my parents were in a quandary. What now?
My father wanted to marry me off and my mother was adamant about me getting higher education.
Well, my mother won as usual, because my father could never say ‘no’ to her (grin) and I laughed all the way to my college…

Anyways, the small town where I was born had no good college and since my mother wanted me to study in the best, I was sent to a distant college for my graduation degree and lived in a hostel during those years.
The University where I studied was about 1000 kms from my home-town and it was my first experience of living away from the extremely sheltered life that I had back there.
The freedom I tasted suddenly was no less than opium. Heady and exhilarating. The first and most exciting experience was that I could choose my friends. Back home, all my friends were screened and it was difficult for me to invite them home without letting my parents have an entire background check on them. Most friendships were aborted midway and the one I retained were always under the scanner. Boy friends were taboo. The great unmentionables.

Life at hostel seemed like a dream, and let me stop and tell you here, those were the best days of my life.

I made some lovely friends there. Great friends to whom I stay loyal even today, despite being out of regular touch.
My first friend was a girl from Kashmir. We just matched absolutely in our tastes and interests, so much that I could almost hear a “click” when we first met.
One thing that fascinated me most about my college was the high fashion that the girls followed. Almost every girl wore tight jeans, tiny tops and had short hair. I had hip length hair. Long, black and in my eyes at that time, boring.
I found myself torn between getting that cool, short hair look and the fear of getting a really bad scolding from my mother when I go home during my summer vacations.
Eventually the impulse of youth won and one Sunday I decided to visit the nearest hair saloon.
My friend from Kashmir was aghast. ‘You have got such lovely hair, don’t do it. It is a rare feature.’ She admonished. But I was driven and the more I imagined my new look, the more it strengthened my resolve.

‘No way. I want the chic, modern look.’ I was adamant. In retrospect I knew that it was also an act of defiance. And as I write this, years later, I smile. Perhaps I wanted to tell myself that I own me.

She being my best friend gave in and escorted me to the saloon. The hairdresser took agonizingly long time pondering over cutting it mid length or go for the immediate short cut, something I wanted. ‘Just below my ears.’ I told him. He advised me to go slow.
‘Get yourself acquainted with short hair, let me give you a shoulder length first. See how you feel about the sudden air blowing on your back and then go for a shorter style after few months.’ He said, looking with sympathy at the long strands between his fingers.
‘No. I said. Go for it. I want very short hair. The pageboy cut.’ He was still skeptical when he picked up the scissors and I thought these barbers are scissor happy persons!
Chop, chop, chop. There was a huge pile on the ground; the pile grew higher as I urged him to go shorter on my hair.

I could hear the intermittent gasps from my friend all the while the barber worked on my head. I was watching my face emerge from the pile of hair and honestly for few seconds I did feel the sudden fear, what would I say to my mom? How would I face her with this hair? Would it grow back to the same length six months later?
But it was too late. I had a really short pageboy cut hair now.
I could feel the cold air on the nape of my neck and the face that stared back at me was so different from what I remembered.
It was the face of someone I had just met. A new me.

This Bliss …

2010-05-06T05:19:00.000-07:00

The dawn peeping through thin glass pane
Spreading mist, on my blue bed sheet

Awake
Alive

Stepping into the room
To watch my son smile in his dream

The morning tea
The white porcelain pot
Steam rising from the snout
The fragrance, the warmth

The shower gel
Strawberry and honey

Hot croissant, golden butter
Eating jam from a warm palm

The whiff of cologne
Musk and lemon

The rain, silver baubles on the patio
The breeze, carrying scent of earth

A walker singing in the rain
Jingle of bicycle bells

Lazy smile above the newspaper
A slow, sensuous, promise
Bliss.

My mother’s goodbye

2010-04-26T00:27:00.000-07:00

I left my parental home that day
As a young girl of only seventeen years.
The January rain came down, like pin stripes of grey,
My washed- out tracks disappeared behind me
It veiled behind the mango grove roundabout.
When I looked back with the yearning and the grief of native spots
I saw my mother, leaning against the pillars of neighbor’s house
Waving at me, cheerily, apparently.
I knew how she would weep after dinner
After tucking everyone into bed, thinking about my lone room
Inside the bleak hostel walls…
Already writing letters in her head.
Already missing me.

The Game

2010-04-16T04:49:00.000-07:00

"Since we've seen each other, a game goes on.
Secretly I move, and you respond.
You're winning, you think its' funny,
But look up from the board now, look how,
I've brought in furniture to this invisible place,
So we can live here."

Author Unknown.

Missing Nani

2010-04-13T07:39:00.000-07:00

We called her Nani (grandmother) due to her old age and because our mother insisted that she should be addressed respectfully.
No one was allowed to question who she was. She had been living with us, since the time I could remember. She helped around the house and kitchen, although it was not expected of her. But she insisted on taking up few chores, because sitting idle and wasting time was sacrilege in her eyes. She made the most amazing dolls with cotton balls and pieces of cloth and as a young girl I remember having a basketful of dolls in all shapes and sizes made by her.

One day she said ‘There are distances in countries but there must not be distances in hearts.’

She was sitting beside me while I was grappling with my Math, as usual. I remember picking up my measuring scale of geometry and putting one end of it upon my chest and another upon hers.
‘Nani, the distance between my heart to yours is two feet.’ I said jokingly.
She was cutting mangoes and she waved the knife at me playfully and then she added gravely, ‘ Distance of hearts are not measured. You only feel such things. If you feel there is no distance, you don’t feel the separation.’
She had got up with a sigh to put the sliced mangoes in the refrigerator, and I still remember the cold sigh that had escaped her lips, along with the crackle of her old bones.
I often pondered over her words, realizing what Nani meant by having distances in hearts. It is the love gone cold. It is running after material comforts and letting the close relationships wither with neglect.
Personally she had lost almost her entire family in the 1971 Bangladesh liberation war. However, we had come to know that she still had few relatives who lived on.
She never talked about the loss of her immediate family that comprised of husband, two married daughters and a mother- in -law. Maybe the pain was too much to bear, but she often talked about her nephew and a brother who had settled down in Karachi, and talked of them with much love and longing. But as far as I could remember they never made any effort to get in touch with her. She lived on memories, sighs and I often caught her staring pensively towards the door.Hoping that someday, some loved one might come back, and moisten up those arid eyes.
But no letter, no postcard ever arrived for her.
However, despite the apparent desire in her eyes to go back to her roots, I never saw her crying or complaining. She maintained a stoic calm and whatever time was left from her namaz (prayers) she kept herself busy around the house, arranging the linen cupboard, cutting vegetables, cooking something special in the kitchen or making dolls.

One day a letter arrived for her, with the postmark from abroad. She wept with joy while her eyes scanned the words hungrily.
Her brother had asked her to come and live with her. He had arranged for the tickets, visa and other requirements for her travel. We were all very sad at the thought of her leaving us but we were also very happy for her. Her happiness was extremely contagious and we couldn’t help basking in that warm glow emanating from her.
Nani left one day for strange shores, amidst loads of tears and promises to remember us always. We received a postcard a week later, informing us about her safe arrival to her destination. Months, years and then more years passed. It took away the edge from Nani’s memories but we did talk of her now and then, remembering her with fondness...

However, nothing could have prepared us for what we heard, five years after she left. The news of her missing from home.Nani missing? Where did she go?

It so happened that one day she had left home after a rather bitter quarrel with her sister-in-law and never came back. The police couldn’t find her, the relatives couldn’t trace her. After few weeks they even began to look for her body, assuming she was killed or met with an accident. But she couldn’t be found.
It’s been twenty years now, since she has gone missing. Something tells me she is still alive. I don’t feel it inside my heart that she is dead.
Perhaps, the distance that she spoke of had not settled inside my heart even after so many years and I could feel the vibes, of her living somewhere.

She must be around eighty years old now, assuming she is still alive.
And wherever she is, I pray that she is safe and peaceful.

Beside the Quiet Voices-

2010-04-09T08:08:00.000-07:00

When Christine Robinson sent me this extremely generous gift of her book “Beside the Quiet Voices” in mail, with her very warming, heartfelt, handwritten words, I couldn’t avoid thinking how geographical distances are meaningless when you wish to reach out and make a connection.
Since the last few days I am sort of lost in the world beyond the boundaries and so-called seven seas, in the world of a woman who fought alone, all her battles.

I had met Christine Robinson in cyberspace. And like so many of other wonderful, beautiful people whom I have met through Internet and have formed a special cerebral and even spiritual relationship with; my connection with Christine is special too.
Did I just say relationship? Isn’t relationship something deeper with more definition and dimensions?
Well, what else could you call this bond where you relate to so many emotions and thoughts with all those who have reached out with their words, even though I have never met them in person? Isn’t this a kind of relationship, one that transcends the cultural and spatial barriers? Isn’t this how kindred souls meet?

Christine’s lovely book ‘Beside the Quiet Voices’ is also about relationships in all its complexity and conjectures; notwithstanding the marvels. It is about the relationship we have with our dreams, illusions, pain, sadness and tiny, simple wonders that involve life. It is about the relationship we have with our own inner, deeper self and the one we form with others who come into our lives as a guide from beyond.
While reading this book you cannot help forming a quiet and tender relationship with the voice of the book, where you feel connected with most of the feelings and thoughts the author elaborates upon. It is hard not to be moved by the sheer simplicity and honesty of this voice. Christine writes with her heart. With a rare passion. Normally I would have used “raw passion” but Christine has mentioned in one of her essays that she hates the word ‘raw’.
In her own words, “Isn’t there another word for writing from one’s so called truthful place?” (Beside the quiet voices, 124)
Thus, I am substituting it with ‘rare’.

The book is basically a compilation of various thoughts, incidents, phases of life such as her grappling with clinical depression, the aftermath of losing her brother and of all those perceptive poems written over the times. It contains a plethora of experiences and exceptional insights, with all the drama and pathos of what life is made of.

Christine writes about the simple daily moments and the poignant experiences with the same kind of intensity that one could expect from a writer who has the potential to write unapologetically about everything and anything.
There are some essays that would make you hold back the tears, bring about a lump that might stay stuck in the esophagus region for some time, especially the ones where she writes about her special bond with her brother Chuck and a dear friend John. Some of the stories are written with a soft chuckle, a tongue in cheek humor and innocent fun, along with the unshed tears that hover like a streak of red on a twilight sky.

Beside the Quiet Voices is not a novel with a beginning, middle and end; or a piece of fiction with a plot and climax. Every essay and poem is a random climax in its own. Holding many evocative questions within; leaving behind wistful answers.
It is a brave account of a courageous woman who dealt with the inevitable blows of life without burying her head in the sand.

Beside the Quiet Voices by Christine Robinson is NOW AVAILABLE on Amazon.

rumi

2010-03-26T22:37:00.000-07:00

"If I see you... I will laugh out loud with delight,
or fall silent...
or explode into a thousand pieces...
and if I don't, I will be caught in the cement and stone of my own prison."
~ RUMI.

again the night hours

2010-03-25T00:00:00.000-07:00

In sleep my radar is very sensitive,
All my assumptions-down they go.

Closure

2010-03-19T03:58:00.000-07:00

End, when it comes, hits hard
Like a door closing on face, rudely.
But end is essential, like opening that window, to release the stale air.
To close the tired lids of waiting;
Of waiting too much, too long.
End is necessary, to let the old desires rest in peace.
Because old desires become wounds,
And wounds cannot be forgotten, only lanced.
End is compulsory, to open up the vision,
To see beyond the canvas of mist, the stars in the sky.
To hear that song which calls beyond the far horizons,
For the departure of a hurting past,
For the resurrection of a deserted present.
End raises above the carcass of hope the bull,
Before its feet grows red upon the sands
To see a rose as white as justice.
End is veneration; a decent burial.
End puts an end to uncertain optimism.
End is a new beginning.
And, another new beginning.

My friend DM-

2010-03-13T05:13:00.000-08:00

I heard the news. DM died. Someone who loved life so much. Someone who taught ME to love life so much is gone forever.
A man of incredible strength, amazing resilience. Exceptional humanity. Such was DM. But I know that wherever he has gone now, wherever people go after dying (for no one comes back to tell where they actually go) he is happy!
DM was a happy person. One of those persons who are always happy no matter how much life bulldozed them. He laughed when someone asked him, ‘how is life treating you?’, you know the particular question people often ask because they feel this is better sounding than the generic ‘how are you’, but it was something that fitted the bill with DM’s condition.
He would say, ‘Life is a beautiful bitch and how do you expect a bitch to treat you?’
He said the word ‘bitch’ in Hindi, a word that sounds quite crass in this language, but it sounded credible and honest from his lips. Why? Just because he was my friend, am I picking up the cudgel for him and finding excuses for his usage of an abusive word? No. It is because DM was treated by life in a bitchy manner…
Why do bad things happen to good people? Shouldn’t it be the other way round? ‘Good things happen to good people. Bad things happen to bad people.’
Simple philosophy. No complication. No intricate, long winding labor for God and his entourage of Angels to toil through. But it doesn’t happen this way in life. There is no explanation. There are hypothesis. No elucidation. And if you cannot handle this answer then don’t ask this question. God loves puzzles. God loves to play around.

Okay, where were we? I was talking about DM. My friend. Two days ago I heard that he has died. At the age of 45. An age when most of us come of age. My pain is unconstrained at this particular moment, though I know he would have chided me for mourning.
Our friendship was strange. It had started twenty-eight years ago when we were both teenagers. We were introduced by his cousin who was also my best friend. My best friend thought that we have similar personalities, similar thoughts, and must be introduced to each other, which turned out to be wrong judgment on her part since DM was essentially different from me.
We were opposites, in fact. Chalk and Cheese, he called us. Who is chalk and who is cheese? I asked him with mock displeasure and he quite graciously replied, ‘you of course are cheese, my dear. ’
We were different in many ways. He was from a more liberal background, extremely outgoing and gregarious. He loved to party, hated reading books, loved to play outdoor games and was learning fencing and shooting. He wanted to be an ace shooter. He danced like a dream. I on the other hand was from a sheltered background, quiet, introvert, chronic book lover, stayed away from sports, disliked partying and I couldn’t dance to save my life!
But in some queer, inexplicable way we shared an extremely harmonious relationship. Maybe our souls met. Maybe we had met sometime in another life. He often joked that he was a king in another life and I was a jungle princess who gave him water when he had lost his way and was dying of thirst.
Inevitably, we did fall in love. It was brief and beautiful. And like most love stories, it was left incomplete...but such was our relationship that it bore the onslaught of romantic love and came out a winner. No rancor. No regret.
I married young, and we lost touch. I heard sporadic news of him when he dropped letters, greeting cards, frequently at first; now and then later; far and few, much later. But in the span of next ten years I did know where he was posted, whom he was dating, the death of his only sister and the loss of his father. The sundry tales. And then he told me that he has fallen in love.
He sounded very happy. One day he sent me his marriage invitation card. I wanted to attend his marriage, but at that time my circumstances were ruled by others, and I had to let the wish die. He sent me the photographs of his wedding.
The two of them together, arms in arms, handsome, happy, looking already settled in a shared happiness. He married the girl he loved. I was truly happy for him.
He deserved happiness.
That was the last I heard of him. He never wrote after that. To my few letters that followed, there was no answer. I was going through an extremely bad patch in my life and I got busy trying to figure out my life. My address was changed. We lost touch completely. Exactly fifteen years later I was in his hometown on a brief visit. On impulse I went to the address. Just to find out about him. His mother opened the door. I heard about his tragedy. DM had met with an accident while on his honeymoon. He slipped into a deep hole while skiing on snow, broke his spine and was paralyzed from waist down. Incidentally he was now living at his parent’s house.
He laughed when he saw me entering. ‘Sorry I will not be able to get up on my feet, to greet you.’ I knew that he was teasing me for my penchant for chivalry in men. His face had not changed in twenty-five years. Amazing. I thought. The same boyish grin. The same naughty twinkle in the eye, the crow’s feet notwithstanding. His hair had some grey in them; rest was the DM of twenty-five years ago.
‘Where are the wrinkles?’ I asked playfully. I did not wish to focus on his tragedy. I was not looking at his wheelchair.
‘They have settled on my heart.’ He spoke, still laughing. It stunned me for some time, but I blinked back the tears. He would have certainly teased me for weeping. He was ecstatic to see me. I felt ashamed for not trying to find his whereabouts for all these years.
‘This did not hurt me so much. She left me. That was unbearable.’ He told me later. An infinitesimal flash of pain in his smiling eyes, and it was gone again.
I had to leave that town after five days. But those five days were like a refresher course in life for me. Once again I learned how to appreciate life, in all its ugliness and beauty, equally. Often in the past he used to admonish me for my somber thoughts.
‘You think about life more than you enjoy it. Come on yaar (partner) stop philosophizing life so much, just enjoy it!’
This time was no different. He never let me be sad for him or for myself.
Promises were made to remain in touch. We corresponded for few months and then his mails stopped again, abruptly. His mobile said ‘switched off’ all the time. No news at all. I got entangled in my own recurring messes and his thoughts faded a little, though not gone forever.
Two days ago I heard the news. He died of multiple organ failure. Failure is not a word I ever associated with DM.
He championed through life and was successful in all his ventures: career, sports, business, work, friendship.
His organs might have failed him. His spirits didn’t.

Alternative

2010-03-07T01:33:00.001-08:00

Before you enter my new friend, stop for a while,
Wait outside this door.
Let me go inside first.
To clean out the mess, sift the disillusion from the dreams;
Light the gloomy corners.
Dust the cobwebs of regret.
Quite the echoes of cold sighs.
Let me turn off the radio that is still playing ‘our songs’
Broken glasses, congealed tears, specks of blood.
A tiny puddle of water on the floor, dripped from his wet body.
Sweat of a tired love drying on the walls, ice cold moans, smell of old food,
A wet patch on the pillow, where his face had been.
Let me pick up that crumpled paper of incomplete poem,
One sock that he forgot to pack.
A shiny coin that had fallen from his trouser pocket,
The sweet tinkle of its fall; some sound in this deathly silence.
A souvenir, a lucky charm.

Droopy flowers, the parting gift –last bunch.
The pillow talks …
The scrap of dark night, like his black eyes.
Let me pull the curtains on it.

The gloom of these vaulted walls, the exit.

Ah, you are departing-
Well, then, fare you well, my new friend,
And forgive.

Art in exile

2010-03-01T20:23:00.000-08:00

To me he always appeared like a mystic fakir. Snow white beard, the shock of white, scraggly hair and a hermetic calm on his face. He wears dapper suits, walks bare feet (he never wears shoes) and roams around with a large size brush in his hand; to paint his famous horses and the infamous bare backs of beautiful and voluptuous women.
In my opinion, he is one of those artists who are born once in million years.The kind who are true to their art. Like Mansur and Rumi, they believe in the rapture of their calling, and care little about how the world perceives them.

Maqbul Fida Husain, popularly known as M.F.Husain, is the iconic Indian (not an Indian citizen anymore) painter who was banished four years ago for painting naked Hindu goddesses. A handful of rabid opinion makers drove him out because they felt that he has “hurt” the “sentiments” of Hindus by showing their goddesses in the buff. That these people understand art even superficially, is a matter of great debate but it is extremely unfortunate and shameful for a democratic country like India to have lost its most valuable artist, someone who has taken India to the world canvas. At the age of 91 Husain had to run away for his life due to the death threats by these same people who have no sense of art whatsoever, and the Indian government intrinsically failed in providing him the much needed protection that he craved and deserved, both.
That he has recently accepted the citizenship of Qatar that was offered to him by the Qatar government was a matter of great debate in the television talk shows. But the debates were as usual about everybody talking smart, without making much sense.
In any case, I have always found these TV talk shows to be inchoate and phony, where people talk more at each other than about the topic, adoring the sound of their own voices and more4 often than not, skirting around the controversial issues. This talk show about Husain was no better. They had the celebrity artists, the "intellectuals", and the celebrity politicians -speaking in jargons as aways- along with celebrity women hosts mouthing borrowed phrases from their heavily painted mouths.
No one really spoke anything substantial about how Husain could have come back to India- with a death threat looming on his head and with an announcement of prize to any ‘patriot’ who chopped off his hands-or with any concrete solution.
The fellow artists condemned the act, saying how shameful it is that an artist of his caliber had to accept the citizenship of another country, but they also had nothing else to say about ‘how’ he could not have accepted Qatar citizenship.
A certain MP even said that Husain had as it is, alienated himself from India and did not 'want' to come back.
Alienated? Yeah right! A 95 years old man was expected to come to India, put his head in the hanging noose of 900 legal cases filed against him all over the country, and stand before the brandishing sword of the bigoted group to get killed and not take sanctuary elsewhere, but the government would do nothing to make real efforts to protect one of its most distinguished citizen.
I insist that protecting Husain is not about defending an artist, but about artistic freedom. The freedom of expression that the Indian constitution gives to its citizens. Husain was the most eminent art export from India. He was the pride of the country. An artist par excellence. And he tried, many times to appeal to the government. He tried myriad times to offer apologies to those whose ‘sentiments’ he had ‘hurt’ albeit unknowingly. Contrary to what is said about him, he wanted to come back to India. He loved this country.
But his appeals fell on deaf ears. Finally he did what he thought was best; accept what could not be changed.
So sad that we have to use ‘was’ when it comes to him being an Indian citizen. We lost him to the politics of hatred.
In this country where mythology and history are often juxtaposed and alternate each other in context according to various political agendas, no sanctuary could be provided to an artist who was its national heritage.

Twinge

2010-02-24T11:40:00.000-08:00

A wounded sun burns forlornly through the smoky haze.
The war-wounds of gray-haired soldiers are aching still.

History

2010-02-16T20:18:00.000-08:00

A cactus of gloom grows and spreads inside,
like a tightened hug, leaving no free breath.

Photo credit: Jamie Winter

Hermit

2010-01-28T08:07:00.000-08:00

I roved where my glances slipped.
I roamed alone, at hazard.

Struggle

2010-01-26T02:03:00.000-08:00

The leaf
falls
trembles
toss back
restless
edgy
fighting still
to rise again
just like me
the leaf.

Quest

2010-01-24T06:44:00.000-08:00

Life lashed me along like a blizzard.
On its verge the striped mileposts whirled.

To be continued...

2010-01-22T00:57:00.000-08:00

The world was listening with interest

except I fell asleep

telling my story.

Respite

2010-01-16T08:21:00.000-08:00

Every knock scares me.
Is happiness a borrowed jewel?

Endurance

2010-01-06T22:33:00.000-08:00

Who am I?

            A light swallow

      night has misled

                        on her journey.

That Night

2009-12-31T02:33:00.000-08:00

Howrah bridge at night in Calcutta

It was the night of 31st December 1999. I was in Calcutta and the new millennium was just few hours away. The entire city was decorated like an Indian bride. Clinquant and dressed to kill. At the famous Park Street of Calcutta, a giant screen was put up for public viewing and the movie ‘Titanic’ was playing on it. Perhaps they meant only the great love story, and not the doom, and were happy to usher the New Year with a gigantic display of this magnum opus.
We were out to celebrate the eve and our celebration was all about roaming the glittering streets and eating ice cream and cakes in the cafes lining the pavement. Before leaving home we were warned playfully about the over enthusiastic crowd of Calcutta men who just go haywire when too happy or in “High Spirits” and were told to take care of ourselves when the clock strikes midnight, especially when we are out on the crowded streets. ‘Anyone would grab you and kiss you. It’s ‘Happy New Year’ after all. And please take note that the kiss might not be just a kiss…so be careful to get inside the car before the clock strikes twelve’ The Cinderella hour was imposed on us.
My cousins shivered with apparent disgust at the thought of being ‘manhandled’ like this and were adamant that we leave before midnight…
Being a Delhi gal I was not scared of the perceived rowdiness of men from Bengal, knowing very well that the mild tempered Calcuttans are no match for Delhi men who are in ‘High Spirits’ all year round, and Living in a city like Delhi has taught me how to survive the leching and aggression.

Anyways, we were out on the dazzling streets and I was rejoiced to see the true spirit of night in this city after many years. When Delhi sleeps, this city wakes up, surprisingly, although Delhi is the capital city of India and is much larger, the so-called nightlife is insipid in comparison to Calcutta. Perhaps it is due to the law and order situation here, which is always on the precipice of threat. Despite all the daring no woman could imagine roaming the streets at such an hour in Delhi…it is too dangerous.

We walked on with our ice cream cones and caught glimpses of the movie on the giant screen. Many people smiled and wished ‘Happy New Year’ as they passed on, although there were still fifteen minutes left to the midnight. Maybe it was the spirit for the night or the contagious bravado, we decided to stay on the street and truly enjoy the celebration with the surging crowd.
We took care not to wander too far away from our car. If worse comes to worse we would always dash towards the sanctuary of our car.
There were just two minutes left to the midnight hour and nearly all the people had come out from the nearby pubs and cafes and were lining against the pavement’s railing to shout, greet and hug when the new millennium makes its grand entry.
Our group stood a little further and watched the rising fervor. Our hearts were beating due to the infectious excitement and we were ready to rend the night air with our shouts of ‘Happy new Year’ at the stroke of 12.
We had strolled away to stand under a huge Peepal tree. There was a large trash bin at a little distance from us. It was not closed properly, the lid was askew and the stench that was coming out from it was becoming unbearable. I walked towards it to close it firmly. I pulled the lid and tried to position it to place it firmly on the circular bin. Just then I heard a whimpering sound coming from inside. I thought a stray puppy has got trapped inside and since it was a large, man size bin full of trash, it must be finding it difficult to come out. I looked back at my group for help and saw that their faces were shining with suppressed excitement, there was just one minute to go… The streetlight was falling straight inside the trash bin and I raised myself on my toes to peep inside. I froze. But not due to the cold on that December night.
There was a man huddled inside, clad in rags. He was trying to save himself from the bitter cold with torn papers and by huddling deeper into the trash, which was nonetheless, warmer than the street…

To return to normal

2009-12-12T20:18:00.000-08:00

I wish I were fifteen again,
when the pain of a broken nail,
was all that mattered.

Effervescence

2009-12-05T21:28:00.000-08:00

Raindrops falling on the roof,
Sky is the bartender tonight.

Red hearts

2009-12-01T20:59:00.000-08:00

The last of the leaves blow down
In the autumn of your love.

Recollection

2009-11-25T23:17:00.000-08:00

The memories burn
with blood shot eyes,
at dawn’s crimson edge.

Appearances

2009-11-20T03:39:00.000-08:00

The swaying twigs moved slowly
and stirred my face.
The lake retreats into its own depths,
leaving me trapped
in my dissolved image.

Night's anapaest...

2009-11-15T22:22:00.000-08:00

Listen

The passing night air
stirred the potpourri
of fragrant dreams.
Songs of cricket in dark bushes,
the soft hum of rustling leaves.

Stillness

The night stood still
with its dark hair disheveled,
the silence held captive
in its flagrant folds.

The moon dropped silver coins
into her begging bowl,
with barbed discretion.

Just a view

2009-11-06T11:12:00.000-08:00

I tread a track through woods

The hallway was absolutely quiet. Few liveried waiters were bustling about in the restaurant that was visible from the archway of the hall. They appeared to be making arrangements for guests coming down for dinners and late evening drinks. The sounds of cutlery and plates was cutting through the dull silence of the evening. The heavy drapes on the French windows were drawn back and I saw a thick mass of mist surging against the sky. I filled out the details on the booking page and my pen lingered a little at the departure date. I did not know when I would leave. As usual, I had packed on impulse, to get away for some quiet times. Walking away from things.
But he needed a figure. I wrote a date ten days ahead from the current one. He told me that since it was an off-season period with lesser tourists, I am getting a huge rebate on the cottage. I thanked him.
He ran a careful glance at my details and turned around to select the key to my cottage from the red lacquered board on the back wall. He called the passing bell boy with the flick of his forefinger and thumb.
‘Have a pleasant stay ma’am’. He smiled again. I wish that too. I thought secretly, nodding at him. Pleasant is translated to peace. Just peace.
The bellboy trudged up the corridor that led to the row of tiny cottages outside, with my luggage. I followed on the graveled path. No one was around. The corridor was empty and the cottages that lined up at one side appeared to be unoccupied.
I felt I was at that palace in the fairy tale ‘Sleeping Beauty’, where everyone is waking up from a hundred years of sleep.
I was allotted a corner one, secluded from the rest and with the best view of the snow peaked mountains.
The wooden floor was covered with a soft green carpet, and there was a comfortable looking queen sized bed in the center, neatly made with pristine sheets and moss green woolen blanket. The rather ornate dressing table had a cheval glass mirror above it. There was a heart shaped mirror on the headboard of the bed and another one was on the ceiling. All the mirrors threw back my reflections in the pale light of the room. Perhaps it was meant for the honeymooning couples, who would have welcomed the manifestations of their prurient activities all around in this charming room; and not for a hassled, weary fugitive such as me; with no idea how long she is going to hide in this room.
I drew aside the heavy curtains. A thick layer of blue mist has stretched over the unstirred stillness of the mountains.
The windows had got stuck due to being shut for long period and the wind was extremely cold on this late October evening. I shivered as it entered the room with a sudden rush, touching my body through my thin jumper. The window looked out on miles and miles of undulating hills, their snow tipped peaks drenched in the fading rays of a bruised sun. The distant hills were smattered with little white cottages and tiny inns and bald patches of crisscross pathways that sloped down the dense deodar trees. The silence felt eerie.
The air was turning icy now, as the hills changed colour under a fine film of mist that embraced the snowy peaks. From dark blue to turquoise, to grey, it flitted from one mood to another, as the mist disappeared into the great unknown. Finally I was having my fill of the space. Breathing it in, filling my lungs with the smell of pine and wet grass in the air around…

The Retreat

2009-11-02T11:35:00.000-08:00

Once again, I found ways to escape in the sounds of silence.

The pictures above are of a beautiful hill station, located near Chamba valley in Himachal.
I was here, for thirteen days with the blessed peace and calm of nature, and nothing else but the mystic serenity all around me.
Not much human contact, except the distant waiter who brought me my meals and few walkers whom I met in the quiet pathways. Beyond my cottage, just opposite my window there, was that majestic mountain peak covered with the first winter snow. The mountain called on me at evening leaning upon my window, and I spent the twilight there with it.
While I was asleep, it stood on sentry till morning of the following day...

Today I am back within the dusty walls of my crowded city life. Amongst the rat race of humans. To get entangled once again in the crazy whirl of urbane living.
To the deafening screech of skidding wheels, when egos are more inflated than the tryes of the car.
How I remember my friend, the mountain peak that stood so high, so aloof, so quiet at its loftiness, reaching out to me everyday in its calm magnificence.

Photo:Nazia

Barbed Horizon

2009-10-27T21:04:00.000-07:00

What could be more cruel than seeing a lion, the king of the jungle, trapped , acquiesced into submission with sedatives,forced behind a small cage; its freedom curbed and lashed into surrender by the inherent treachery of human being?

It is the cruelty of those standing outside the cage, watching this degradation of a royalty, turning it into an entertainment at the zoo, which bothers me more...

The abasement of man. The laughter, the tease. The safety of being cruel, while standing outside the cage.

Monday blues

2009-10-18T11:26:00.000-07:00

A new day rattled the latch of my bedroom.
A day of magic, a day of splendor?
The usual crazy kind of day!

The morning rose out of the shadows,
Bottling up the terrible genie of my insomnia.

Above the abyss

2009-10-15T07:53:00.000-07:00

I did not build a house to shelter me-
The joys of overcoming great sorrows
my gypsy soul learned
on the open sea,
as I swam, from belief to betrayal
from insanity to aim,
From foam to foam…

A brief encounter

2009-10-10T08:47:00.000-07:00

I love train journeys. Where else can you find trees running away, right before your eyes?

Yesterday, I was in a sleepy, dopey kind of place with Himachal Pradesh close by, and it isn’t quite a getaway for relaxation or any kind of entertainment. What took me there was, work.
The train stops at this station for just two minutes. If you have plenty of luggages, then start collecting them at the exit at least 10 minutes in advance, otherwise you either leave yourself in the train, or your baggage is left behind.
If you are like me who prefers to travel light, then there is no problem. Just jump down the three steps of the train exit, land on your two feet and walk down the quiet platform towards the way out.

There was no cab outside. I was told I could easily get a taxi or a three-wheeler carriage to take me to my destination.
But at 11 in the morning, the town had still not woken up. The still warm, October sun was beating down on the tiny, white square outside. No cab.

Few rickshaw pullers were dozing on their seat. I asked one of them where I could find a taxi. Instead of replying, he questioned where do I need to go. I gave him the address. He promptly offered to take me there.
In a cycle rickshaw? I was amazed!
The rickshaw puller said it is possible. The demography is different here. The distances are much shorter and the roads are free from traffic.
He was amused at my dismayed expression. ‘Hop in. It is just 6 kms from here. I will take you in 15-20 minutes, and the charges would be 30 bucks.’
Not even half the amount of what a cab driver would charge. I felt embarrassed. Poor guy, pulling all of me, for 20 long minutes! I asked him thrice if he is sure. He said he is sure. In Delhi, I can’t dream of going from one part of the city to another in a rickshaw. And in the suburbs, where I live, driving from one sector to another takes me 10 minutes in a car.
I realized what a big bad city I am coming from.

This small, sluggish little town could well have been straight from Sleepy Hollow. Though I had not come here to investigate a series of murder; just to meet somebody, and return home, taking the evening train.

There was negligible traffic on the roads. Long, clean, tree lined roads. Almost empty of traffic. No road rages. No acrid smoke in the air. No pollution. The city was very green. And quiet. So quiet.
The rickshaw puller took me to my address, cycling me under the merciless sun. ‘Look Madam. I brought you here.’ He was drenched in sweat, but he smiled.
I felt guilty, as if I am cheating him out. I gave him 50 bucks instead of 30, and I couldn’t bear to see the utter disbelief and gratefulness in his eyes. This country is still so poor! I thought sadly.

The meeting was over in 30 minutes flat, and needless to say, the travel of 300 kms from Delhi to this place, turned out to be unproductive.
What now? I had nearly six hours to kill, before the next train could take me back to Delhi. What to do? I don’t know anyone in this city. Seeing places of interest would take longer. Movies are a good option, but I decided against spending two and quarter hours inside a picture hall, something I do frequently back home.
I entered a café. It was tranquil and cool, full of potted, green ferns all around. A thin beam of sun was slanting through the skylight. I sat in a corner with Sylvia Plath’s Bell Jar, hot masala tea, and a piece of apple crumble pie.

There were few more people sitting inside the coffee shop, with their laptops and books, and were engrossed in their work and reading, while drinking their coffee. No sound, no din, no chatty people talking loudly with their mouths stuffed with food.
I began reading the book. An hour passed and I ordered another cup of tea.
The waiter served it with a sugary smile.
By the time I reached the twelfth chapter, the book became depressing, dark and disturbing. Esther, the protagonist in the novel was being taken for shock treatment. Not the kind of passage I would enjoy while wandering alone in a strange city.
Perhaps later; back home in my bed, under the soft glow of my reading lamp, I would feel the distress of Esther’s mental breakdown with lesser intensity.
Explore the city. I decided. Though it doesn’t have a very different culture from Delhi, I believe that every city does have something new to offer. Every experience counts.
I walked inside the tree lined avenues. There were some lovely boulevards surrounding the main roads, with fine-looking, sprawling houses and well-kept gardens. I was so engrossed in admiring some of the beautiful gardens that I did not notice the omnipresent Indian cow, charging towards me. Someone pulled me sharply. Next moment I was pressed against that person’s chest, with his arms tightly around me. ‘Arey …yy... you could have been killed!’ He screamed. The cow charged crazily ahead. Perhaps it was being chased or was chasing something. I was in its way. The cow would have not taken lightly to me being an obstruction in its pursuit and my intestines would have spilled out on the roads, if my savior had not been quick enough.

He released me. I tried to collect my ruffled nerves and turned to thank him for saving me from becoming a dash between two dates, on a cold tomb. But before I could thank him properly, he just said a brief ‘are you okay?’ and walked away quickly, merging in the dense cluster of trees ahead. Disappearing behind them.

Perhaps he was an angel. Appearing like a ray of sunshine and then dissolving in an unknown mist.

I took the 6:20 PM train back home. Outside the windows a beautiful, carroty sun was setting behind violet smog. I watched the trees running away before my eyes and I thought of my savior.

If he stumbles upon this forum ever: ‘Thank you stranger. Be happy, wherever you are.’

Retrospect

2009-10-07T03:29:00.000-07:00

The past lies naked and revealed
within my soul, in high reprieve.
The memories, winnowed, like grains,
scatter around, seed by seed.

The railway platform

2009-10-01T12:12:00.000-07:00

His face was distorted with painful efforts to smile.
‘Don’t move’ I said to him ‘I have seen you somewhere.’
He did not speak just let out a lacerated laughter.
‘ Are you dead or alive?’ I asked and looked around in fear. The railway platform was dark and deserted, not even a single lamp was lighted. No one was around.
I looked back at the form lying huddled on the rough, stained floor.
‘I am alive, but I died very long ago.’ He said in muffled tones.

The porter arrived with my bag, my red bag with blue logo. I almost grabbed the bag from his hands and tried to get up from the floor where I was sitting on my hunches, talking to the sleeping man. I could not stand up on my legs and I groped in the dark, to look for my feet.
The porter shook his head in sadness and walked away. His fire engine red uniform was glowing in the dark.
I saw a flash of steel badge on his sleeve. He raised his arm to stop an approaching train. The train stopped.

He turned back to beckon at me. He told me with hand and facial gestures that the train would not stop for long. I must get up and board it as fast as I can.
My bag was not there. The man was still lying on the ground, and I looked around for my bag.
‘Have you seen my bag?’ I asked, as I looked around frantically. The platform was pitch dark and the train had begun to move slowly.

The porter in red uniform was running his fingers along the moving body of the train, walking leisurely, while the train chugged along. I watched him count the numbers on his other hand. One, two, three…
He was smiling.

I wanted to run and catch the train but it had left the platform. There were just long, winding lines of shining grey steel, running parallel to each other, with sharp pebbles in between. A few feet away from me, my bag was lying open on an iron bench. I saw huge bundles of paper, peeping out from the half open zip.

‘How did you open it?’ I asked the man who was still lying on the ground, his face buried in the crook of his arm. He refused to answer me and I was feeling angry with him. I wanted to shake him up but my hands and feet were just hanging by my side. The darkness grew.

‘Okay, I want to wake up now. I want to go home.’ I said to the porter in red uniform, who was silently putting all the papers back in the bag.

http://annandaledreamgazetteonline.blogspot.com/search/label/Nazia%20Mallick

First light

2009-09-28T20:37:00.000-07:00

Beyond a lilac expanse,
hangs the fading light of yellow moon.
The stars look stung,
above last of the partings.

A quiet man

2009-09-26T21:54:00.000-07:00

Like the glinting rays through Tiffany glass window
into the warm, sunlit courtyard,
His shadows fall.