Tuesday, 23 November 2010

Midnight Rambles

In the rambles of the night
Glows a dull, fluorescent light.
As black shutter-gates close
And the library begins to doze.
Conversations take random turns
And opinions, in the heart, feverishly burn.

Voices rise and fall.
In the background, frogs call.
Everyone has someone to talk to
And someone to go to.
In the middle of darkness
Is a light-featheredness.

Because feet ramble
And the clicking cycle-pedals-
Whirring wheels of a silent vehicle-
Speak of a moment so magical.
Two strangers become friends,
And speak of random ways and ends.

Under trees that glitter green,
Under the moon's yellow sheen,
Coldness is substituted by the tea's steam,
And warm narrations' soft gleam.
Unimportant, inconsequential words tumble out
And silently dance and waltz about.

The night is complete: perfect, absolute.
At the end of words is solitude.
And two pairs of feet take leave and part,
And in departing, pedals restart.
On the faces of two not-so-acquainted friends
A laugh quietly echoes; a smile begins.

PS: This was written on 18-08-2010. The general feedback for this poem has been that it isn't that comprehensible. This might be owing to the fact that I had written this based on an evening/night spent with a person who became my friend, and this was a sequence of events...

Celebration and Yearning

Standing alone in the room,
She looks at the neatly folded off-white kasavu.
Thin, silken, gold threads
Weave their way through the fabric.

She slowly, affectionately,
Wraps the cotton cloth
Of summer-ease
Around her body,
Heightening her slender frame.

Concentratedly, mathematically,
She folds the pleats
Of a single length of cloth,
And tucks it in.
She then drapes the pallu
Over her shoulder.

Softly, the comb caresses
Her black tresses,
Neatly parting it
In two equal streams
Of scented black.

And the music twinkles
With the bangles
That she lovingly dons.
The anklets sing
To the tune of celebration.
The large gold jimiki
Pierces her ear.

And finally, the fragrance
Of mallippoo
Is the powerful scent
Of white against black.
Against the white of her eyes
Is the darkness of mai.
Against the whole body
Of white and gold,
A splash of blood-red kungumam
Colours her forehead.

Standing in front of God,
She hopes for another
Physical presence.
A black pupil that will
Catch the off-white and gold,
And twinkle like a diamond.

Written on 23-08-2010


Two o' clock in the morning.
The sky is inky black;
The bed awaits a cold body
That seeks warmth and sleep.

Seven o' clock in the morning.
Two eyelids refuse to open.
Two pupils laze and gaze
Through a dazed haze
At the alarm-clock.

Ten thirty in the morning.
The class's soporific effect
Hypnotises the mind into a stupor,
And the head tilts,
Gives in and sleeps.

Written on: 18-08-2010


Flames of peacock-green,
Copper-sulphate blue,
And dashing purple
Cackle open in the breeze.

Feathers of angry red,
Vibrant yellow,
And glorious orange
Flutter down in the background.

The rest of the world
Lies dark and still,
Black and quiet.
Sing the song
Of the peacock
At dusk.

Written on 2nd August 2010

Monday, 22 November 2010

On the comforts of home

There is nothing like being home. It is the best feeling in the world (at least for me). I might sound spoilt here, but it feels good to have tasty food instead of the bland goo that they provide in our hostel, and it is absolute bliss when you can type a post and enter it in without the internet connection going haywire. It is lovely to have world cinemas (UTV) and TV sitcoms at the flick of a channel. It is nice to sit and do absolutely nothing if you choose to, instead of submitting a million assignments and studying for useless examinations, from which you learn something below nothing.
That said, it also feels nice to have time to think about papers that you do want to write up, and plan out the number of places you need to go to get things done. It feels refreshing to have my white-board, instead of the flimsy post-its that attempted to solve the clutter in my mind (which they did)- and contrary to what some people might think, I actually do write in a large font on the board. It feels nice not to feel the swing of heat and cold that Hyderabad has been throwing at me for the past month or so.
On the other hand, I still feel like a hybrid between two places, what with half my books there and half of them here! I wanted to check something in this play called Fire and the Rain by Girish Karnad, but I couldn't because, to my exasperation, I had left the book there, in campus. I miss the wings that my cycle offered me, and am now cluttered by the noises that a city offers.
Am I becoming a neither-here-nor-there person? I wouldn't like that. But with Tamizh, and a limited Telugu, I have become an in-between person. Maybe that isn't a bad thing, but there is a side of me that wants to be complete, though I am nothing but fragmented. I want to be nothing but the comfort of home, though I am but a traveller through the empires of time-space.

Monday, 8 November 2010

Gypsy Dance

Drum beats to a thundering heart.
Something in the brain's synapses
A pair of feet- restless, energetic- start.
Anklets, singing to a rhythmic beat,
Two eyes, lost in a gypsy-like mystique, dart
Across the green, and grey and
The dark.
Two bangled hands, a magical terrain, chart
Flowing, fluid landscapes of
The mind.
The body sways in a creation of art
As it is lost in the earthy drum beats
Of the night.
Not here, but somewhere else am I.
Not me, but someone else am I.
Not now, but forever am I.
The music is the life beat
Of my entire being.

Written on 24/09/2010 (Posting it got a little delayed.)
PS: This poem was written after an exhilarating experience. It was during the 2010 onam celebrations in campus, where a multitude of performances were played. The last one was a gorgeous interplay of the drums and acoustic guitars. Though the actual performance went on only for a few minutes, those people who were performing chose to spread the music even after the program, while people were queuing up for dinner. So, my feet began to automatically jingle and jangle to the 'earthy drum beats' (there is no other way in which I can think of describing it). And I was wearing the onam saree, too. But I couldn't stop myself. So, I danced what I know best- bharathnatyam to the drums. It was an amazing experience- spectacular, rather (all puns intended)