The red light blinks to life.
Stopping traffic that is waiting to get home
For a few seconds, may be a minute or more,
Tired minds take their feet off accelerators,
Ponder on the myriad chores done.
And the many more
That remain unfinished.
Beggars clamour.
Vendors beg.
Window cleaners begin
Their tasks.
Earnestly.
Until it’s time for green again.
Somewhere else in the city,
The red light comes alive,
Bringing morality to a stop.
Cleavages clamour.
Cat calls beckon.
Men close doors on their homes.
Work begins.
Earnestly.
Until it’s time for day again.
have always been intrigued by the origin of the word 'red light area.' found that sometime in the 1890s, working girls used to shade their candles/lamps red, to advertise their trade. written sometime in jan 2012.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
pledge
he feels the earth beneath his feet,
picks up the broken lumps
and sieves it through his hands,
she smells of freshly turned soil
vestiges of fallen leaves.
she brings alive the stories
of countless miniature beings
that have made their homes in her.
He holds her close to his face,
And she talks to him,
Like a long-lost friend.
She tells him of the days
when he played on her as a small child,
Helping his mother pull out weeds,
With his clumsy, little hands.
She shows him the new pair of shorts
that her rich crop bought his father,
She weeps as she reminds him of
a large corner of her being sacrificed,
To the pawn broker,
who later became the keeper
Of his mother’s gold, and their home.
She shows him her barren womb
year after year
And how more of her disappeared.
And then, she is silent.
For the time has come
When he must leave her.
Forever.
There is no reproach in her.
Just sadness. And silence.
For despite all that she gave him,
he has pledged her all,
for a computer education
For his son.
He holds her once more,
Close to his heart.
And breaks down,
weeping like a child.
She smells of him,
his father and his grandfather,
And yet, he has no choice,
But to surrender an unforgettable past
To an unknown future.
picks up the broken lumps
and sieves it through his hands,
she smells of freshly turned soil
vestiges of fallen leaves.
she brings alive the stories
of countless miniature beings
that have made their homes in her.
He holds her close to his face,
And she talks to him,
Like a long-lost friend.
She tells him of the days
when he played on her as a small child,
Helping his mother pull out weeds,
With his clumsy, little hands.
She shows him the new pair of shorts
that her rich crop bought his father,
She weeps as she reminds him of
a large corner of her being sacrificed,
To the pawn broker,
who later became the keeper
Of his mother’s gold, and their home.
She shows him her barren womb
year after year
And how more of her disappeared.
And then, she is silent.
For the time has come
When he must leave her.
Forever.
There is no reproach in her.
Just sadness. And silence.
For despite all that she gave him,
he has pledged her all,
for a computer education
For his son.
He holds her once more,
Close to his heart.
And breaks down,
weeping like a child.
She smells of him,
his father and his grandfather,
And yet, he has no choice,
But to surrender an unforgettable past
To an unknown future.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Unmask
the drama of love
peels away
layer by layer
unmasking the charade of chastity.
the taste of infidelity is delicious.
sin always is.
but the after taste lingers
longer, longer than the ecstasy.
it lingers, bitter
in the eyes.
the drama of betrayal
peels away,
layer by layer
unmasking the charade of love.
published in kritya, october 2012 (poetry in our time):
http://kritya.in/0803/En/poetry_at_our_time8.html
am amazed at the number of poems that appear in some online publications on lust, extra-marital relationships and so on. this is my take on it.
peels away
layer by layer
unmasking the charade of chastity.
the taste of infidelity is delicious.
sin always is.
but the after taste lingers
longer, longer than the ecstasy.
it lingers, bitter
in the eyes.
the drama of betrayal
peels away,
layer by layer
unmasking the charade of love.
published in kritya, october 2012 (poetry in our time):
http://kritya.in/0803/En/poetry_at_our_time8.html
am amazed at the number of poems that appear in some online publications on lust, extra-marital relationships and so on. this is my take on it.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
homes from the homeless
For the first few months, selvi will carry bricks,
Heaped upon rusted iron bowls,
That are placed on her tender head,
Whilst her lame son plays in the sand,
Building castles of his own.
Muthu will cement the dreams of eager young couples,
Who have pledged their salaries, on this hope of concrete.
When evening comes, the dreamers will visit, smiling
At their home, being built brick by brick.
When evening comes, selvi will carry her lame child back,
To their rickety shack.
The dwelling, hastily built for them
And seventy five other beings.
In some time, floor tiles will appear, mirroring the dreams
Of the dreamers. The tiles will be polished until they shine,
Like the sweat that glistens on the survivors.
In a year or two, the grand dream will appear, put together
Hand by hand, sweat by sweat, human by human.
And people will visit the freshly painted homes,
Pat the dreamers on their backs and raise a toast
To the good life.
selvi and muthu will then pick up the remains of their shack,
And move on to the next dream that they will build.
And their little lame son will begin building castles
In the sand.
That will crumble again.
written in july 2007. truth, as i saw my home being built by the homeless
Heaped upon rusted iron bowls,
That are placed on her tender head,
Whilst her lame son plays in the sand,
Building castles of his own.
Muthu will cement the dreams of eager young couples,
Who have pledged their salaries, on this hope of concrete.
When evening comes, the dreamers will visit, smiling
At their home, being built brick by brick.
When evening comes, selvi will carry her lame child back,
To their rickety shack.
The dwelling, hastily built for them
And seventy five other beings.
In some time, floor tiles will appear, mirroring the dreams
Of the dreamers. The tiles will be polished until they shine,
Like the sweat that glistens on the survivors.
In a year or two, the grand dream will appear, put together
Hand by hand, sweat by sweat, human by human.
And people will visit the freshly painted homes,
Pat the dreamers on their backs and raise a toast
To the good life.
selvi and muthu will then pick up the remains of their shack,
And move on to the next dream that they will build.
And their little lame son will begin building castles
In the sand.
That will crumble again.
written in july 2007. truth, as i saw my home being built by the homeless
Monday, March 12, 2012
time waits
Rickety. this sight, that passes the eye,
Of a village that seems to hang precariously
To a perilous past.
And treads, slowly on the wheels of time.
For time does stop here,
to listen more often,
To watch more closely,
A life that the rest of the world has forgotten.
Time watches the neatly whitewashed huts,
Homes, yes.
But huts that huddle together,
And share common walls,
Even share conversations of the nights,
And then empty themselves into open sewer pipes,
wash their dirty linen
In the light of day.
Time watches people lower their heads
to enter their homes,
their ceilings barely above their heads,
Possibly to keep dreams from flying too high.
And heavy brass locks that far outweigh
The weight of their meagre treasures.
And then, there are the evening smells
That time inhales.
Slowly.
For often, these smells last longer than the food,
And they, the people must quench their bellies
With just those smells.
Time waits in this village,
For nothing in special.
Because it is only here that time herself sits,
Laid back,
not hurrying herself against
The city clocks.
Of a village that seems to hang precariously
To a perilous past.
And treads, slowly on the wheels of time.
For time does stop here,
to listen more often,
To watch more closely,
A life that the rest of the world has forgotten.
Time watches the neatly whitewashed huts,
Homes, yes.
But huts that huddle together,
And share common walls,
Even share conversations of the nights,
And then empty themselves into open sewer pipes,
wash their dirty linen
In the light of day.
Time watches people lower their heads
to enter their homes,
their ceilings barely above their heads,
Possibly to keep dreams from flying too high.
And heavy brass locks that far outweigh
The weight of their meagre treasures.
And then, there are the evening smells
That time inhales.
Slowly.
For often, these smells last longer than the food,
And they, the people must quench their bellies
With just those smells.
Time waits in this village,
For nothing in special.
Because it is only here that time herself sits,
Laid back,
not hurrying herself against
The city clocks.
What is, what isn’t
Shubha is careless, everyone knows
You can see it in the way she even handles her phone,
Dropping things callously, misplacing keys and books,
never remembering if she added enough salt to her food.
Yesterday she cut her thumb, said she’d sliced some bread,
The other day it was a bruise that ran across her head.
But in the office, she’s full of life; there’s a sparkle in her eyes,
And many friends bring to her their stories of doubt and lies.
She listens to them patiently, and comforts their angst and cries
Tells them that they must keep their hope and never let it die.
Shubha is everyone’s best friend but no one knows about her,
They’ve only seen a glimpse or two of her husband of ten years
He wears a dimple on his chin and a scar under his ear.
There’s nothing much to think about them, nothing much to hear.
When Shubha doesn’t turn up one day, no one wonders why
It’s evening when they get the news and then they start to cry
They visit her in hospital, to see her bruised black,
Burnt stubbs of cigarettes are patterned in her hand,
And whiplash marks and nail bites scrawled on her back.
Her eye has been beaten blue, and she is comatose,
No one knows what happened until they see the reports.
This is the story of Shubha’s life, almost everyday,
It’s not her carelessness after all, it’s a sadist at play.
The dimpled man that Shubha wed is not nice after all,
You can tell by the broken bottles strewn in their dining hall.
Now in hindsight they all see who Shubha was,
Dropping things of nervousness, not because she didn’t care at all
The twinkle in her eye, they saw was masked in wretched tears
They all wish they could have seen behind that grace, her sad wall of fears.
You can see it in the way she even handles her phone,
Dropping things callously, misplacing keys and books,
never remembering if she added enough salt to her food.
Yesterday she cut her thumb, said she’d sliced some bread,
The other day it was a bruise that ran across her head.
But in the office, she’s full of life; there’s a sparkle in her eyes,
And many friends bring to her their stories of doubt and lies.
She listens to them patiently, and comforts their angst and cries
Tells them that they must keep their hope and never let it die.
Shubha is everyone’s best friend but no one knows about her,
They’ve only seen a glimpse or two of her husband of ten years
He wears a dimple on his chin and a scar under his ear.
There’s nothing much to think about them, nothing much to hear.
When Shubha doesn’t turn up one day, no one wonders why
It’s evening when they get the news and then they start to cry
They visit her in hospital, to see her bruised black,
Burnt stubbs of cigarettes are patterned in her hand,
And whiplash marks and nail bites scrawled on her back.
Her eye has been beaten blue, and she is comatose,
No one knows what happened until they see the reports.
This is the story of Shubha’s life, almost everyday,
It’s not her carelessness after all, it’s a sadist at play.
The dimpled man that Shubha wed is not nice after all,
You can tell by the broken bottles strewn in their dining hall.
Now in hindsight they all see who Shubha was,
Dropping things of nervousness, not because she didn’t care at all
The twinkle in her eye, they saw was masked in wretched tears
They all wish they could have seen behind that grace, her sad wall of fears.
fame 1
If i ever knock on your doors, dear fame,
Make sure you see me through the peephole,
Don’t open your doors.
Speak to me from your window instead.
Of how transient i am
And that it will be someone else tomorrow.
Be sure to egg me on my way,
For if i stop too long,
I may never wake.
But before i leave,
Gift me your sister,
So that i may always carry her upon my shoulders,
And stay rooted to the ground.
Give me humility, dear fame,
If i ever walk your way.
Hide behind the limelight, if you must.
So that i won’t stay.
written in early march 2012.before the hindu decided to bring me to the light, kicking and screaming.
Make sure you see me through the peephole,
Don’t open your doors.
Speak to me from your window instead.
Of how transient i am
And that it will be someone else tomorrow.
Be sure to egg me on my way,
For if i stop too long,
I may never wake.
But before i leave,
Gift me your sister,
So that i may always carry her upon my shoulders,
And stay rooted to the ground.
Give me humility, dear fame,
If i ever walk your way.
Hide behind the limelight, if you must.
So that i won’t stay.
written in early march 2012.before the hindu decided to bring me to the light, kicking and screaming.
fame 2
Click.
it’s over.
Forever frozen in memory.
But lost to the moment
That is now.
And those that will follow.
As transient as fame,
Whose limelight will soon
Darken
And pave way for the next celebrity.
In time,
Both will fade
Into oblivion.
Like our earthen spirits
Turn to ashes and dust.
Photographs. Fame. Life.
Now there. Now, gone.
it’s over.
Forever frozen in memory.
But lost to the moment
That is now.
And those that will follow.
As transient as fame,
Whose limelight will soon
Darken
And pave way for the next celebrity.
In time,
Both will fade
Into oblivion.
Like our earthen spirits
Turn to ashes and dust.
Photographs. Fame. Life.
Now there. Now, gone.
wordless
How can one
Transform twenty six
Into
A language
That describes
The emotions of lovers
Lying entwined, spent?
The haunting emptiness of
Cracked river beds that once
Teemed with life but now
Cry for attention, silently?
A word that describes
Swollen bellies of children
That cannot differentiate
The hunger in their stomachs
From the anger in their hearts or
The sadness in their souls?
The beauty of an untouched sky
That sits atop snow-capped mountains,
Beckoning, teasing one’s heart
To soar?
Into the gut-piercing cries
Of a woman in rape,
Pinned down by rabid beings,
Of the emptiness in her faith,
And the despair in her hope?
Into a language that describes the
Laughter in a new-born’s eyes?
Into
The calm that emanates
From the heart
When lost in the world
Of one’s god?
Woefully inadequate,
These twenty-six
Within which we must
Bare the many emotions of life.
Transform twenty six
Into
A language
That describes
The emotions of lovers
Lying entwined, spent?
The haunting emptiness of
Cracked river beds that once
Teemed with life but now
Cry for attention, silently?
A word that describes
Swollen bellies of children
That cannot differentiate
The hunger in their stomachs
From the anger in their hearts or
The sadness in their souls?
The beauty of an untouched sky
That sits atop snow-capped mountains,
Beckoning, teasing one’s heart
To soar?
Into the gut-piercing cries
Of a woman in rape,
Pinned down by rabid beings,
Of the emptiness in her faith,
And the despair in her hope?
Into a language that describes the
Laughter in a new-born’s eyes?
Into
The calm that emanates
From the heart
When lost in the world
Of one’s god?
Woefully inadequate,
These twenty-six
Within which we must
Bare the many emotions of life.
shadows
Again. And then again.
Abuse
Hurls itself against the courage within
Her. Breaking her spirit
Little.
By little.
Until the only strand
Of hope that remains
Is to survive it all.
Just survive.
Today, she breaks free,
Flees.
In fright.
Fright that will always follow her
even when she is far away.
and safe.
And then, she will cry.
The salt of her tears,
will spill on every pore
That he hurt.
Erasing the wounds,
But
Singing them with a memory.
Fierce. Dark. Frightening.
And then she will face the nightmares.
That will rudely awaken her.
Wet with sweat.
And tears. Again.
Making her remember the days.
Relive the nights.
The wounds will still be raw
When she picks up her threads.
broken, but still reminiscent of a once whole.
And she will learn to move on.
step by step.
And he,
He will take his next victim,
Who will follow the same path.
He will remain anonymous.
Slippery, like a shadow.
But there. everywhere.
Until we all rise as one,
To give him, what he gave our sisters.
But then again, it’s always easy to write.
Easier still to speak.
it is easy to speak of courage when we are not faced with fear. then, even the bravest of us, fails. is scared to walk out, shout, scream. perhaps that's why it's easy for the abusers to continue what they do.
this is for a dear friend.
Abuse
Hurls itself against the courage within
Her. Breaking her spirit
Little.
By little.
Until the only strand
Of hope that remains
Is to survive it all.
Just survive.
Today, she breaks free,
Flees.
In fright.
Fright that will always follow her
even when she is far away.
and safe.
And then, she will cry.
The salt of her tears,
will spill on every pore
That he hurt.
Erasing the wounds,
But
Singing them with a memory.
Fierce. Dark. Frightening.
And then she will face the nightmares.
That will rudely awaken her.
Wet with sweat.
And tears. Again.
Making her remember the days.
Relive the nights.
The wounds will still be raw
When she picks up her threads.
broken, but still reminiscent of a once whole.
And she will learn to move on.
step by step.
And he,
He will take his next victim,
Who will follow the same path.
He will remain anonymous.
Slippery, like a shadow.
But there. everywhere.
Until we all rise as one,
To give him, what he gave our sisters.
But then again, it’s always easy to write.
Easier still to speak.
it is easy to speak of courage when we are not faced with fear. then, even the bravest of us, fails. is scared to walk out, shout, scream. perhaps that's why it's easy for the abusers to continue what they do.
this is for a dear friend.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
five and a half measures
Five and a half measures
Glory unfurls,
fold after fold,
heavy with
golden threads that glint
between the shimmer of silk.
They are the first to kiss the bride,
Touch her, and awaken the woman within.
They sing an ancient ode to beauty,
These five and a half measures of
Beautiful tradition.
At other times, it’s just simple threads,
Woven together, starched or soft,
They become second skin,
That define the resilience of the spirit within.
The spirit that bends over a child with equal ease,
As it bends over cotton fields,
Roughs it out through crowded streets,
All the time, defining the woman within.
But wait,
Look beyond the folds, if you will,
And you will see that hint of skin,
Revealing a glint of defiance within
A shade of rebellion of
all that she can be,
when she chooses to be.
Five and a half measures,
sacred sensuality,
all rolled in one
beautiful ream
to define the woman
that is me.
Glory unfurls,
fold after fold,
heavy with
golden threads that glint
between the shimmer of silk.
They are the first to kiss the bride,
Touch her, and awaken the woman within.
They sing an ancient ode to beauty,
These five and a half measures of
Beautiful tradition.
At other times, it’s just simple threads,
Woven together, starched or soft,
They become second skin,
That define the resilience of the spirit within.
The spirit that bends over a child with equal ease,
As it bends over cotton fields,
Roughs it out through crowded streets,
All the time, defining the woman within.
But wait,
Look beyond the folds, if you will,
And you will see that hint of skin,
Revealing a glint of defiance within
A shade of rebellion of
all that she can be,
when she chooses to be.
Five and a half measures,
sacred sensuality,
all rolled in one
beautiful ream
to define the woman
that is me.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
colourless. brown.
To us, she was always brown grandma,
Shorn of hair, clothed from head to toe,
In a shade of colourless brown that was meant to merge
Her presence and submerge her being,
Within the background of the bustling household.
Brown grandma wore no jewels,
Save a garland of dried seeds
that would seep into her being,
the ideals of renouncement from
all the deliciousness the world had to offer.
She was meant to be –
Never seen, never heard,
But her presence hovered around the house
Like the stale, forgotten smell of the doors,
The ceilings and the floors.
We never thought of her as young,
To us, she had always remained this way –
Brown, shaven and devoid of any beauty
That surrounded our mothers and aunts -
brilliant shades of red and yellow
that anointed their heads and faces,
the delicate fragrances of jasmines and pink flowers,
that wove themselves in their hair,
the taste of betel leaves that
dyed their tongues red, already ripe
with gossip of their neighbourhood.
And the sound of their matrimony
That left tinkles on the ground as they walked, bare feet.
We never thought anything at all of brown grandma,
Until one day, we saw her lying dead.
It was then that they said,
That she died young.
Barely forty-two.
When we began to see the dreams
she must have had,
It was too late.
Too young.
Too late.
after a story i heard on the possible genesis of a traditional brahmin widow - it traces back to a few centuries, when a young child widow - the daughter of the king's priest - became the king's obsession. when he asked to see her that night, the priest escorted her in a covered palanquin. when she stepped out, the king was shocked at seeing a form devoid of beauty - hair shorn, giant rudraksha beads on her neck and a dull brown garb.
brought memories of a brown grandma (a distant relative).
Shorn of hair, clothed from head to toe,
In a shade of colourless brown that was meant to merge
Her presence and submerge her being,
Within the background of the bustling household.
Brown grandma wore no jewels,
Save a garland of dried seeds
that would seep into her being,
the ideals of renouncement from
all the deliciousness the world had to offer.
She was meant to be –
Never seen, never heard,
But her presence hovered around the house
Like the stale, forgotten smell of the doors,
The ceilings and the floors.
We never thought of her as young,
To us, she had always remained this way –
Brown, shaven and devoid of any beauty
That surrounded our mothers and aunts -
brilliant shades of red and yellow
that anointed their heads and faces,
the delicate fragrances of jasmines and pink flowers,
that wove themselves in their hair,
the taste of betel leaves that
dyed their tongues red, already ripe
with gossip of their neighbourhood.
And the sound of their matrimony
That left tinkles on the ground as they walked, bare feet.
We never thought anything at all of brown grandma,
Until one day, we saw her lying dead.
It was then that they said,
That she died young.
Barely forty-two.
When we began to see the dreams
she must have had,
It was too late.
Too young.
Too late.
after a story i heard on the possible genesis of a traditional brahmin widow - it traces back to a few centuries, when a young child widow - the daughter of the king's priest - became the king's obsession. when he asked to see her that night, the priest escorted her in a covered palanquin. when she stepped out, the king was shocked at seeing a form devoid of beauty - hair shorn, giant rudraksha beads on her neck and a dull brown garb.
brought memories of a brown grandma (a distant relative).
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