Saturday, 30 June 2012

Strawberries on a windy day


Strawberries on a windy day,
A warm, cosy book, that takes you far away,
Jumping on slushy puddles in the rain,
With the water down your cheeks… on your skin,
Grey-blue skies amidst the green,
The ocean’s dull, silvery sheen,
Clouds that sprout magic on a whim
Tinged with a solemn, golden rim,
Strawberries on a windy day…

Chocolate fudge instead of rice,
Wine under glimmering lights,
Hooded by the stars in the darkness of night,
A smile that plays when your ‘someone’s’ in sight,
Cell-phone trills in the silence of doubt
And your heart skips and leaps about,
An unknown song that changed your mood,
Somebody cooking you delicious food,
Strawberries on a windy day…

A day off without rhyme or reason,
Ice-cream in the winter season,
Waterfalls about your feet
Dancing to a fast-paced beat,
Pillion-riding on an Enfield,
Sprawling on a yellow-green field,
A gift when you least expect it
A smile that changes your whole perspective
Strawberries on a windy day!

Tuesday, 26 June 2012

River song

Treading meandering paths,
Feet wander through the misty clouds
And the cold engulfs.
Gusts of frosty wind
Blow against puffed-up cheeks
That blush in the warmth of exercise.

Slowly, coyly, the translucent curtains of white
Part
And we are at the water front.
'Rangit' curls, twists and embraces
the rocky ground
And I am left to ponder-
Are not earth and water one entity,
As you and I;
As air and fire?


The icy water only kindles the sturdy land.
Feet hesitantly stumble upon
the steel-grey, chilliness of rock-splattered waters.

Sitting upon a rock,
I am the sky,
I am the clouds,
I am the water,
I am the rocks
And inside me
Is the surety
of the river's path
And I fall silent.


Note: This poem is based on that lovely experience of sitting with my feet in the river, Rangit, in Baiguney.

Wednesday, 6 June 2012

Blank Pages


It was a new day. A new page. A blank page. It was exciting- the prospect of writing a new story, forming new narratives of thought and seeing the emptiness of a new existence getting filled in, slowly. The first few months there was the adventure: the trekking and the walking and the cycling. There was a team of close friends, and there were parties in the wilderness, and poetry reading sessions. The pages grew colourful- they were vivid green, and black and yellow and even the greys of rain; they were red for passion, and blue for calmness and violent orange for enthusiasm. We were story-tellers all. There were midnight fires in cold, blistering nights, and dragons would wake and ghosts would prowl the night skies. Our pages were imaginative to say the least. (It was no longer my page. It was ours- we were a team; we got each others’ backs).
But the page has to turn, and the colours aren’t always bright, are they? Once there was only a dull red. There was… not love, but something that stood in its place. The pages glowed with a longing for something that was not to be mine. There was respect. It had to be a ‘he’; and yes, there was a ‘he’. ‘He’ was dedicated, kind, down-to-earth and highly intimidating. He was the first of his kind and there was a distance. ‘He’ was not a close friend, and yet that dull red… oh, at times it hurt to feel the colours. I wished that I could rip the pages apart and re-write those days. But that dull red… it taunted and it played and it churned the shards of my red fist of a heart, confusing the grey senses of the mind.
And it was always the greyness of the mind versus the redness of the heart. Those stupid pages always chose to burn red, to write red and to etch it in the greyness of my mind. And then there was a dialogue. Dialogues are the toughest. When the red tries to explain to the grey, and the pure, cold, calculating, reasoning mind can shut up the former. And suddenly, there was a blank page all over again.
It was the toughest to see the mocking, silence of white when all there had been was red. There was still respect, and there was still adoration and there was still intimidation. But worse still, there was silence. And that redness hung mutely in the blank pages of a new life.






Note: This was meant for a Blog-a-ton post, but I missed the deadline! The topic given was "Blank Pages"

Monday, 4 June 2012

A song in praise of Aavakkai

I know the title bears the impression that this would be a song. Unfortunately I do not sing, and will have to do with a meagre explanation. Aavakka-urga is a pickle! It is insanely tempting, and I hope that at some point in time you get to try it. So, a new load of this amazing pickle landed up in my house a couple of days ago- received from a friend of ours. It is basically spiced and salted and pickled raw mango that can leave your tongue burning. For those of you who do know the awesomeness of aavakkai I do not even have to tell you what bliss I'm going through. Ok, that was my rather limited song on the subject! More posts later, I guess.