being strong

Loves die. People die.

I am pragmatic, they tell me.
Robbing me of the wish
that it won’t happen to me.

I am strong, they remind me.
Not allowing me to cower
and tremble in his arms.

I am wise, they tell me.
I should not expect them
to calm my worries.

I sit alone in a room;
the solace I allow me
is endless cups of tea.

The Pasta-rollers

I am sent an ordinary photograph.
It shows
a kitchen in beige and white,
blonde wood countertops.
A row of glass jars, with shiny caps.
In the foreground, a boy and his father
are making pasta. They wear
matching orange sweatshirts
and concentrate on the dough.
There is nothing special about it.
Scenes like this are played every night
in a hundred, a thousand households.
I stare at it all day.

Bharatpur

In winter, the lake is alive
brimming with life giving water,
dancing to the touch of every wingtip,
resounding to the calls of the flock.
She is shelter, joy, rebirth.

But summer comes and the flock leaves.
She is left alone to struggle
against a hundred demands on her existence.
She shrinks, withdraws into herself
diminishing, stagnant, forgotten.

Does she feel like crying out to the flock to stay?
“Do not go. You are life for me.
Without you I am scared.
Stay with me, help me in my struggles.”
But it does not matter what she feels.

It is not in her nature to stop them,
as it is not in the flock’s nature to stay.
The parting a necessary part of the story.
Dying necessary for rebirth. All this she knows.
And still she dreads the summer.

Every morning Usha goes about waking this world.
Quietly she walks about, her mood turning the world grey,
making it churn with restlessness.
You see, Arun is so far away still!

She becomes happier as the moments pass.
“He will have woken up now,” she thinks.
“He is stepping out into the courtyard.”
She sees him get into the chariot; gather the reins in his hands.
“He is coming” she gasps, and her blush suffuses the world.

She darts over the earth confusedly, happily.
All of life echoes her heartbeat, “Arun! Arun!”
And he comes! A fleeting glance and then he passes by her
performing his duty as the charioteer of the Sun.

Usha loves Arun. Totally, unabashedly.
He occupies her being, colours her life
If he were not to appear, the world would be darkened
with her despair, plunged into chaos by her confusion.

And Arun? He loves her. Totally, undoubtedly.
If Usha were not to greet her lover one morning
He would feel a pang of regret, miss seeing her stand there.
But those calm and sure hands would not falter at the reins,
And on and on across the skies the horses would thunder.

What I saw:

Had been out shopping for groceries with my mother. In the old part of Pune. I saw, I saw:

1. At a little streetside restaurant, a woman treating herself to lunch. This is remarkable in itself, but know also that this was an old, old rural woman. She had collected her pension (or her husband’s more likely) from the bank and had come here. I wondered if this was a little break from the family/farm/home routine, or a monthly ritual. Was it a treat, or simply a safe place where she could count out and keep away her money? I hope it is the former. I am captivated, encouraged by this woman turning a necessary trip into town into a little vacation for the self.

2. A friend had once asked me if singing while working is a very Indian thing. I remembered that today when I saw a seller of copper jewellery cleaning his wares. He was rinsing each little bunch of bracelets in lemon juice, and had set up a beat. So before one saw him, one heard the cheerful chamcham-CHAM-chamcham-CHAM he had set up.

3. The anti-encroachment police came by when I was in the market. By the time I had figured out what had happened, the stalls had magically folded in onto themselves and disappeared. All those neatly laid out goods, the tables with their little plastic roofs. Each of those stalls has such a permanent air about it that I had never realised that they are illegal, much less so temporary.

magicians all

We are all conjurors, hypnotists, masters of illusion.
Watch as a kiss is transformed into
A lifetime together.
Whole worlds are ours for the imagining.
Fill them with warmth and softness and strength
Add the dazzle of conversation and debate and study
Let us have laughter and play for some sparkle
Who needs an audience when we can mesmerise ourselves?

google and poignancy

Who says urban middle class life lacks drama?
I switch on the laptop and open the browser.
Watch the little icon revolve in tune to
a sustained drumroll.

"The server is taking it's time", I am told.
"Do you wish to continue?" "Listen sweetheart,
You have NO idea of what waiting means."
Yes, I continue.

I think I see a loved one, and sit up straight.
Slump again when I see it is the letter of a
nice gentleman wanting to give me money.
'Mark as spam, please."

Ah well, I will re-read mails sent earlier.
But now the name I am looking for is not
among my Quick Contacts. More resolute than
I can ever be,

Gmail has shunted out my errant lover.