I think there have been many posts in this blog with Eco in it. I don't understand dedications, it seems like a votive offering but that means I think Eco is god. I do not. I think he is someone like me, who lives here in this time. He has seen the calendar turn its page to 2015 ( Read more... )

Let me introduce you to the birds.

As a girl I walked with my fingers clutched in tiny bunches in my mother’s knowing hands. I heard them flutter above. When those fingers clenched, I knew they were watching.

Sometimes they sat on window sills. As the afternoon breeze nudged wispy cotton curtains to part, they watched. My mother taught me to use ( Read more... )

By mid-afternoon,I could see the clouds. I thought it would shower, patterning the concrete with splotches drawing out the heat. But it
didn't. Those are the moments I wish I had more words to tell you about the light around me.

The sun's ardor cooled by the gray around, yet the mood is far from gloomy. It is a light calling for jaidev songs on radio ( Read more... )

Started as a series of letters to a friend. Not sure where she is now, even with the closeness of a click, sometimes thoughts remain far away. As an exercise, I am going to post this every day, and see for how many days I can write on City. Love.

--

In most roads, I spot the raintree that stretches its branches into unlikely spokes of a giant ( Read more... )

Poetry is like the mulch of the much.

Have much, spend much, want much.

Sipping the obvious. But with a charm.

Practised and perfected. A craft, no less.

And so gazing at a bejeweled navel

mirrored in scattered shards of word pricks

The afternoon sinks, drowned by silicone breasts,
crushing the sky abandoned by asansol clouds.

That night had chosen white. A white box of cloth that you could put the night in and keep it. Take it out when the days got too long to bear. Will it stale?
Still.
The night went still. She stood there, waiting for a hint. A slight move there, a swish of that long curtain or a murmur of sleepy leaves.
Stare.
What was left of him were stares. From the ( Read more... )

A breeze that lifts those curtains

A song that suits that mood

A cup of tea with freshly brewed lemongrass and dried tulsi leaves watching those curtains

A coaster that reminds you of that bookshop you visited in a country far away

The book at hand that can take you to lands far away

A knock on your door at a time when doors are shutting all around

An ( Read more... )

D walked into the room and said 'Vanakkam'.

You sound like that boom boom Sun TV reporter, I said, and she had the grace to look bashful. But she was pleased too.

She sat on the chair opposite mine, a straight backed dark wood affair with coloured knobs fitted on its feet, which reminded me of children's toys.

What are you listening to? D asked me.

Do ( Read more... )

(Lots of spoilers ahead on Agent Vinod)

I had fun watching Agent Vinod, but something kept niggling, like the time  I was convinced there was something roaming inside my hair. I did not like that feeling, and it took away most of the idee from the rava idli I was munching at a joint in Infantry Road.

I slept over it and this morning I realised what ( Read more... )

The night had lured her with promises of bedtime stories that wouldn't have happy endings. Comforted, she stripped, smoothed her folds and spread her legs. Eyes closed, he had told her. And concentrate then on what you see. Don't worry, you won't understand.

She waited. Maybe tonight that dervish would swirl again in electric purple. Or that orange ( Read more... )