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Showing posts from July, 2019

Ugly

I don't know whether the blotches, cut marks, pockmarks and spots were by birth on his face. But his face looked slightly uneven. Though I am not the niggler who would just sit back and pass petty remarks on people's beauty and behavior. But still if you believe me, it was hard to look at him and then look again at him. Since I was the headmistress of this small town's very own small school, I asked his class teacher about him. And what I found was a little sad fact, indeed. When he was very young, about two years, he was running with older kids and accidentally fell over an iron fence in his farm. And, thus he lost all his beauty. Yes, he was born a very beautiful baby. The most beautiful among his relations. And so, it spread in the whole town that there is definitely somebody who did something upon him when he was born. Later, they all said, it was an 'evil eye'. So he was put up with stark black kohl in his eyes and a black thread around his neck always, in spi…

Cold like Snow

These nights, when you go to bed thinking, what if you had another reality. The cozy blanket comforts her memories. Memories of the things that never happened. She repeats her name in half-sleep : Rhea... Rhea. She talks to him in her imagination. A smile makes her lips a crescent moon. She sees him before her closed eyes. He was sitting like a little child, fixing his eyes on his goal and his goal was to troubleshoot. She didn't disturb him, though she put her head on his lap and slept. When she woke up next day, she made lunch for her eight year old boy. Breakfast for everyone. Juice for mother-in-law. Washed dishes in the sink and did a little dusting around the house. It was not a big house and she was relieved that it was not. She liked its small size, coziness and flat-like appearance. On an ordinary day, she would hear birds talk, the shrill voice of horns, vendors howling on the street and servants coming and going out of the house. On such days, her memories are shrouded …

Kitchen poems

At present -
I am culling mustard seeds
rolling in a plate
creating - different shapes -
On each slide - a different art.And this means nothing to anybody, to them
Who keep asking me - What do you do?

Sacrifice

Her name was Siyana Jad. She rose to honor by people of her clan during her early twenties. And why not! she had  sacrificed big things in her life for her clan. But if you ask her, what was that? She would mock it off saying, 'may be I was Possessed.' Initially, she laughed off her sacrifices. She did not take them seriously. But the nature of psychology is going from simple to complex. People, in their minds, in their whispers, in their evening meetings regarded her sacrifices as something unusual. Before she knew, she rose to become a Demi-God for her clan. People, actually, worshipped her. Though, it is a different thing, those who respect you, worship you for your sacrifices, expect for even more sacrifices. More discipline. Chastity. More restraints. She went through all drama (leela) unattached. But on the lonesome days, she would feel deep in her heart that unknowingly, she chose heaven, while she was born for hell. If tasting life in all flavors meant Hell, then it sh…

This and the other dreams

The words I did not speak had become a fine powder. Crimson. This is only about me. I am sorry. The naked 'maang' stares in the mirror, in my day-visions. I will act like a lover and this will be over. But then, I learnt to cook, I fancied each afternoon, that 'someone' would come and I will arrange all things perfectly. A round table decorated with blue pottery, vases of fresh flowers, handmade pickles and chutneys in tiny clay jars, food along with desserts. That, you feel being in Paris. I wanted to design a heaven for 'someone'. A garden for happy souls. You said, "You are weird."
I thought, "You were talking to my dreams."

Pain

I fold pain
press gently its crevices,
I keep it in wardrobe, fresh, fragrant. But in a couple of days,
it is again hung outside, in gallery
for people to see what it looks like ;
what color pain, I have ; what size big it is...I fold it again,
again and again,
till it is no more a pain in itself.

(Kitchen poems)

Don't complicateLet chapati be a chapati
Your moon be a moonOf late, I have been disliking the taste of moon. It sticks to the ceiling of mouth and bites dead teeth and eats cavity. It doesn't leave my mouth easily. NowDon't be that moon please! DarlingWe are already good chapatis.

Kitchen poems

I had you on dinner
I served you all dishes and waited
by your side ;at one point, I gazed like Rose,
standing at the deck of Titanic, into the deep blue waters of Atlantic. Not sure why! though
I gazed and in a hazy memory I remember
we drifted apart,
in that very moment.

The Candle and the moth

The night, like monster with hundred faces, comes. A lone candle burnt... continues to burn...      A moth, an old friend, came
... began to be burnt. Slowly. The candle needed the moth,
to stay far, to stay alive. He preferred to die, she lived,
with a harder fate of a lone wood in a forest. Choices in love are onerous. Though, It is an old story, now.
You read it, love.
I read it, loss.