Wednesday, June 30, 2010


i love the fact
that i can't get into your head
that i can't predict anything you're thinking
and i'm sure of nothing
but the fact that
you can hold me
and fall asleep in my arms
and your tiny snores
mean that you're happy.
i love holding you closer than my heart is
your arms squishing my cheek
and warming up my heart
feeling you breathe
and tracing circles and squiggles on your arm
and watch you sigh
completely unaware of me
and drift away
and waiting impatiently
for you to drowse back into our moment
and mumble an i love you
i love you so much more than i thought i could
with almost every ounce of my being
keeping only a fragment of my sanity
to remind myself that you love me too.

'Radhika- Abanindranath Tagore'

she is pale green.
and i stand in front of her,
with my mother smiling,
next to me,
i'm captivated.
her hands are lifted,
and her eyes have no depth
and turned away.
a fallen pot,
a dancing figure,
gracefully silhouetted.
my namesake? or so i'd like to think
a flash of gold
floating green cloth,
beauty and eyes turned away
and then i walk on to other paintings
lesser and bigger
and brighter and deeper
but only wanting to carry her away with me
and turn her eyes towards me and
bring her hands back to her sides
and have her look me in the eye
and see
whether her legs move awkwardly
and whether her smile is too wide
and her hips too broad
and her laugh too loud
and whether her soul
is fragmented
and was still captured in an instant of beauty
or whether her eyes
are only beautiful
because they knew when to turn away.

tuned away

dodder into yourself
shudder away newness
and mutter at the buzzing
listen carefully for
anything that sounds familiar
adjust the knobs in your head,
lean back,
and enjoy the world your recreated.
tune yourself into your own century
clatter away at a typewriter
and iron decade-old suits
push away the ties that crackle with newness
and adjust your grey cap
and smile at the world
and tell them confidently
that a hundred rupees is
far too much to pay
for ice-cream that cost one paise
back in the day.

Saturday, June 26, 2010

my *.

beyond a title,
these days I've run out of words.
beyond loving you,
I've run out of feeling low
I've run out of room
to magnify anything
because we're larger than life.
i don't know how to tell you that
my universe will tune itself to you
even if someone else's doesn't
'i will be as cheesy as the cheesiest person can be'
but i love you
and i suddenly want to tell you that
more than i can.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

la bibliothèque

it is a place, that crumbles everything away. the newest of books acquire the same maroon binding, and within weeks, start decaying away. the smell of old paper pervades everything, and soon enough you don't even notice it's there.
and in this crumbling world, an old man sits at a big, old fashioned desk that is large enough to accommodate at least five people behind it. stacks of books clutter the desk; the books that have just been returned that he is still too lazy to get up and return to the shelves.
the shelves, tall, imposing, narrow stacks, that seem to turn up their nose at you and tip their books in crazy directions just to make it harder for you to find what you want.
uncomfortable chairs are lined in un-companionable positions, one in front of each shelf, stiff backed, sagging into itself with age, with an occasional doddery man nodding off in one of them. fusty musty smells and yellowing pages, greying magical dust wrapping its spell around you, so that you either run away from the tall brown stacks, or submit yourself to the dulled crackle of old words; and keep coming back for more.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010


So maybe, my blog needs a direction. eerily symbolic, perhaps, (da da da daa) of how my life needs direction (dhush).
Maybe i should dedicate it exclusively to my admittedly crappy morbid poetry. Or maybe i should take an interest in the world around me and write with refreshing perspective, keen insight and at times, touching wonderment and naivety. Or, i could write about my delightful life and hopes and aspirations, in the heart of a bustling metropolis, and about the nice young man I've found. So many novels seem to have made themselves a success from this and surely with my insight and perspective and wonderment and naivety i could too. I could also, blog about my family. I could write a book about my family. A whole series of books. They are quite fascinating. And i could put up pictures of cute little children. And maybe even find a dog from somewhere, dogs seem to complete things somehow. Maybe. I could start four different blogs. The poetry one would have a black/brown background, with brooding colours, and images of inkpots and quills and scrolls scattered around artistically. The second one would be crisp and dull, with a white or light blue background and a discreet AdSense column. (no reference to anyone, i swear). The family one would be flowery and appealing, with lots of borders and curly fonts and tastefully bright, almost-but-not-quite cheerful colours. And the Life in New Delhi one would bright and kitschy and have lots of pictures of fruit stands and rickshaw pullers and Holi. (I'm beginning to see why this theme works, i like it best so far.) So i should lose the Bunbury bug and green blobs, and get rid of the nondescript grey blobs, and vague attempts at colour, and pick a direction. where do i go from here?
i could adopt a whole range of fabindia prints. or large shades and an oversized leather handbag. or lose some weight and wear extra short shorts, which are apparently all the rage nowadays. no, scratch that, too much effort. and I'm not even going to think about the too much kajal and black clothes with strange metallic studs. i could get glasses, which I'm sure i need, and wear collared shirts and discuss poetry and social issues and delicately plunk out Fur Elise on the piano.
so, now, after mocking the more ghastly stereotypes, which one do i fit into? its quite shocking how versatile i am, come to think of it. or conversely, how i don't fit into a single of these categories properly, and am still so incredibly boring that its a bit of a stretch to call me "unique". maybe, before college starts, i should devote myself to one of these groups. just to make it easier to decide what to wear everyday.
I'm thinking fabindia and feminism. at least that way no one looks too closely at you.

Saturday, June 12, 2010


I can call up sadness in the blink of an eye
sigh, and feel it rushing into my heart
like i'm standing on my head
with the sea roaring in my ears.

I can fall in love at the sound of a heartbeat
with the sunlight streaming in from imaginary French windows
birds chirping softly, lemon tea, smiles
and a heavenly stillness

I can cry without you even asking me to
you just need to look at me
to laugh at me
and to drip the slightest grains of indifference

I will bare my soul
because sometimes, I have none.

writer's block

lumbering around words
and phrases
and tripping guiltily over metaphors
trying so hard
to trick my brain
into slipping something intangible
in between the words.
trying to "just write"
all the while
thinking about a thousand other things
and still being painfully aware
that it never is "just" writing
its always about trying
trying too hard.


thats foolish.

the finality

yes, thats.. interesting.

the condescension

burn down my thoughts
ravish my hopes
crush every word I say
and beat my beliefs black and blue

frog-like crocodile tears
and croak apologies
and realize
only once the truth
slipped out through your yellowing teeth

stagger and shriek
and pour with abandon
and wave the bottle around
share the goodness with the world
slosh it everywhere
on everything you see

the hiss of a match taking light
the air around you gasps
as something huge leaps ablaze

and then stay
and watch
and wait for what emerges
stay and wait for
the people and the places
the moons and the tides
ash like
from beautiful
burnt down clouds.