It is one of those days when nothing really seems to suffice. There seems to be a deficit in everything about me and in everything that surrounds me. There is a कमी.

There, indeed, was a time when I didn't heed much for either mediocrity or exceptionalism - a time when my happiness didn't depend on how good I compared with the rest or how bad; a time when I didn't despise the ordinary; a time when the knowing that my being falls somewhere in between the extremes didn't bother me. Why, now, do I question where on the line I fall? Why, now, do I put people into good-bad-ugly jars and take much care to space the jars well apart? Why, now, do I question if I am one among the best or a little less?

                                           ***

They drain me of my energy - the questions in my head. They dwell upon my skin like leeches and feed on the blood veining my body. Lethargic, I am left and as I sink back feeling looted of spirits, ugliness raise its head dismissing all traces of solace that I could offer myself. Cynicism surfaces from the filth within and bereaves me of any possible hope.

The deficiency that pervades my being wins an ugly win. Repugnantly, I shudder - many times in vain attempts to rise like the legendary phoenix.

                                           ***

A few words seem so wholesome that I sometimes wish I were as wholesome..as wholesome as words like कमी or lechery or ನಕ್ಷತ್ರ or poignancy ~  they fit their places so befittingly that no other word could substitute; they mean just what they are to mean, nothing more, nothing less.

Only if so was my being ..

Will she turn yellow?

At office, my lunch-companion today was caravan.
It offered me an article that called manmohan a falling man. One more that took me on a ride with the lady whose voice greets and instructs passengers on Delhi metro rails. And another that warned me about the fraudulent real estate schemes. I wished for a moment that I, instead, had a human company who could talk the caravan-talks. Yet, without a sigh(or suppressed one), I shifted my glance away from the magazine to see if the tabebuia, on the far left, down in the garden, had started trumpeting her summer yellow yet. Signs there were, but, she was still mostly green.

A worthy wait it will be, said a voice in my head, for she'll turn beautiful. Two few more months of wait to see her in yellow.
Worthy indeed, I was beginning to think.

'No wait is a worthless one', my Sanskrit teacher, I remembered, had told the class while translating a Subhashitam.

Really?, thought I. If all the waits were just for the waits to cease, I would not have disagreed. But, it is not so, said the voice in my head. It is almost never so. You never wait just for the wait to get over. You wait for your favorite line of the song that is playing on your player to repeat. You wait for Santa's to creep down the chimney-line and for clocks to tick tea-time. You wait for bulls to beat the bears and for bears to eat up honeycombs. You wait for the missing jigsaws to fall into place and for the Rubik's to be solved. You wait for bright friday mornings and for crimson summer evenings... you wait for seasons to begin and for seasons to end. You wait for questions and for answers. You wait for beginnings, you wait for climaxes and you wait for endings ~ hoping all along that the aftermaths will go your way.

You wait under the umbrella listening to malhaar on the rainy evenings of june; You wait warmly huddled within sheets of cold blankets on december nights; You wait with the hope of seeing your dreams come true..you wait with the hope of seeing promises being fulfilled and words being kept.

With a bated breath and a pacing heart, a racing mind and wandering thoughts, with tear-filled eyes and longing arms, you wait for a few things to take shape and for a few others to dissolve and fade away... you wait for those that left without bidding a bye and for those that left with a promise to return.


Cycling through your waiting-longing-hoping cycles, for one moment, you stop to take a look. You see how you have entwined your waits with your hopes. And your hopes with your dreams. In a frenzy, you see how deeply the rigmaroles have buried you. And how naively you've positioned yourself as the last card in the long domino trail.

Did you want this thus? No, says the voice in your head and you shake your head resignedly. Not this. Not thus.

Until yesterday night, you were a girl who hand-picked dreams for her dreambasket. And tonight, you are a girl devastated by reality.


Yet, again, with all your heart, you wish the tabebuia turns yellow sooner, come summer.

Extrapolation

Longing is what I feel when I look at the red suitcase
It sits here right next to my bed, big and ready
Seeming as eager as I am to head back home
with an i-know-i-am-important air in its redness
like it knows it carries the hundredthousand gifts I have bought for you.

---
Sleepless, tonight seems to be.
And I lay here extrapolating.

The boomerang could keep us occupied all day at the hilltop fort
After every sunset, could we cycle back home
Fill our days would laughs and shrieks
merriness merriness and more.

Said you with the goodbye
that you are only a call away.

Were the ground beneath my feet to tremble,
how long would it take to telephone you, Sire?
Hardly minutes, my dear girl, a few

Were the ground beneath my feet to tremble and crumble down,
what would happen to the big red suitcase with the 1001000 gifts?
It could stand the weight of elephants, ten
till a mighty ship will sail it back home

A father that wants to pat my back, proud and a brother.
A friend here and a friend there-
with a story to narrate or a song to sing
with a movie to catch or a play to watch
or with a drink to share on a stupid night in the children's play area.
All just a call away, really?
A sister that counts down the number of days
with as much excitement as we had counted the 2006 FIFA down.
A mother that waits for octoberthefifth right from julythefourth.

My heart sinks.

In my frenzy, flash they all,
pictures and pictures, many ~
a firefly-lit night
and a hewydewy morning.
Hearing to the lubdadubdubs from the expanse of his chest,
with my ear down, laying;
across his face and mine, hands, tiny, running.
babylaughs in our ears, resounding,
a blue jay catnapping
and the sound of a morning bud blooming.

My heart sinks again.
And again, times many.

Were the ground beneath my feet to tremble
So would I would I would I.
Were the ground beneath my feet to crumble down
So would I would I would I.
Lest the unsaid remain unsaid and the undone, undone
the pending, pending and the denied, denied,
Tell me, fool, for once, that sinketh does your heart too

---

6.4, it today was.

In the noon,when the earth shook,
Hurriedly did I reach for my cellphone.

kahan gaya hai
mere shehar ke
musafir tu~
was not what i hummed
while i waited in my
green-polka-dotted-hello-kitty frock
at the gates
for the balloonwala
on evenings
afterschool
restlessly plucking from the gated iron
frails of the orange-pinkish bougainvillea


now
while the monsoon clouds gather
sitting by the grilled glass window
humming ali's musafir
i muse myself
in your absence
thinking of
how at the first sight of his silhouette
and the silhouetted balloons
pinned to the poled rectangle
resting on his shoulder
i ran not to the balloonwala
but to my mother
to pull her by her hand
out of the bamboo chair
and drag her out of the verandah
till the bougainvillea spread
to rejoice with me
his arrival.

***

The monsoon clouds thicken~
deewana hua badal

the fourth floor terrace

Clotheslines with thirtyfours et cetera
Three black sintexes
Meters of broadband cables snaking the terracefloor
Prestige houses.Reddy buildings.RMZees.

Lined up. Stacked up. Piled up. Rowed. Columned.

There's math in everything here~
In bras lined to dry.
In sintexes rowed.
In matchbox houses, airtel cables
And in electriclines poled.



There's math in almost everything here~

Babygiggles are exceptions.

Elsethings are arrangements.
Including the love for her that you claim.

Math is for convenience, afterall.
And, all doers are error-prone.

Come kappe come

They came back again and again and again for as long as i stood there ~ the green-blue-waves.
And the sand beneath tingled my feet whenever the waves wet them and left.
Again and again and again and again and again.
The green-blue-waves ~ So much like you, i thought.


I walked back with thoughts of building a castle.

Built a kappe goodu instead.

chandru hotel

The faded BlueGreen 2ftx3ft CHANDRU HOTEL ~ all in capitals.

Kesribath............Rs.10
Kharabath...........Rs.12
Plain Dose...........Rs.10
Masala Dose.........Rs.15
Set Dose.............Rs.15
Onion Dose..........Rs.15
Anna Sambhar.......Rs.12
Maddur vade.........Rs.10
Bajji/Bonda..........Rs.10
Buttermilk............Rs.6
Coffee/Tea/Milk....Rs.4

Cut-newspaper tissues.
Nirma detergent powder in a steel bowl for handwash.
Parry's washbasin.

Self-Service.
No Smoking.
Thank You.

After I befriend chandru, I plan to tell him never to change the name board ever.NeverEver.

***

You may pay after you have eaten. No coupons. But, you only should remember what all you ate. And, Chandru will know if you miss out including the two-plate-bajjis you ate when he is billing.

Girl-Boy cannot kiss here. Boy may touch her lips, though. For as long as 14 minutes also. And while you leave, you may hug also. no problem. Chandru has watchful eyes. But, no problem.

Here's where I would meet you first.Here's where I would bid you a goodbye suffixed with a seeyou.Here's where I would meet you all the in-between times.

Only one kamee
this is not painted below.the nosmoking thankyou.This ->

Ohno che, no?

You wanted an answer, Ma?

He be the drizzle during the springs, ma
~ moistening the hair let loose over my shoulder with tiny specks of dew
He be the color-maker of my summer evenings
~ the painter of pretty crimson to the cloud-brushed skies of the sunsets
He be the flame of the forest, ma ~ the bright red in the road-side Gulmohars
He be the wind that maketh the autumn leaves fall on the path i tread
He be as vivid as autumn in the Alps ~ as vivid as autumn in the Birch
He be my wintersmith ~ the careful crafter of the crisp fresh snowflakes every winter fall

He be a magician, ma,
who will tricketh me into sleep
pulling me into his arms
every night
hushing into my left ear
Abracadabracadas.

***

purrhaps.purrhaps.purrhaps

She hiccoughs them ~ the purrhapses.
You and I should agree that her controlled hiccoughs makes them sound lovely.
You and I should agree that no man will not not-fall for a girl who'll sing this to him at 15:36hrs.
If not upon anything else, you and I should agree to lovve the way she sings the 'lovve me's. (With an extra letter, does it make you flinch any lesser? No, no? and does it make me flinch any lesser? No! but, all the lovvers will hate us to have wronged their fillintheblanks and four lettered dashes ____ and atleast forty bollyWood loveSongs)





We could agree upon elsethings too. Only if you will shun your gentlemanliness and unleash the samewordminusthegentleness. Purrhaps.


We'll end it with another purr. A softer one ~ purr haps.

titles ~ unimportant

Scratched price tags on the gifts you receive~ scream that a price was paid

Orange peels ~ for sweet revenges

Suicide ~ knowing that you can end your life anytime you want to. just the knowing ~ such a solace

Unstamped WinnieThePooh stamps on the handwritten letters you receive ~ first cutest

Live cricket matches ~ anytime. all for the mexican waves that die only after 5 whole rounds.and the sun-like floodlights

Takeshi's castle ~ must-enter

Darts and dart boards ~ with each dart you shoot, the bitchiness of life reduces. significantly

Funny videos ~ one of your wishes too is to die after you choke on laughter and tummy ache watching these?

Guys who watch jerry&tommy with nieces and nephews quarter their age and laugh as hard as the 8 year olds~ anytime. second cutest

Magnifying glasses, slingshots, big huge globes, harmonicas, sand timers, compasses ~ must-owns

Sanity ~ difficult to maintain

Pebbles on the streets ~ must-kicks

Tildes ~ lovely.lovely curves ~

no title

The wind teases their hair,
moments back neat and silksoft,
now wild and dishevelled.
You see their long proud backs
craned over the prouder riders
zooming past you
while you try to cross the road.
You hmph at it
and shrug off the tinge of longing
that spurs within.

The next moment you are reminded
of how the toothpaste tasted
in your morning attempt
to cleanse the yellow off your teeth
and how the bile burned your foodpipe.
You mentally note to ask the doc next room
how night-long cries result in morning biles.
You wonder why they switched to namboodiri's at home.
When you complained, amma said -no flouride,
appa blamed the P&G.
He misses the point wholly sometimes.
maybe he is aging.
you conclude meswak tastes better.

You think of how melanin,
in varying amounts, does wonders
you think of men walking the cleaner streets
you think of men gaping at the fairer skinned
you think of men dreaming of firmer breasts
you think of men dancing with the long-legged,
taller than themselves, perhaps

It seems the e-mails reach faster these days
than the meghdhoot of the stupid thoughts in your head.
Should you now feel foolish
for all the time you vained yesterday night
sleeplessly lying on your bed
trying telepathying people who took to flight?

Are you the Kondal Rao guy?Are you? Are you?

Pre.S: If you are asking me who kondalRao is, you are not his owner.
Stay away. Tumba thanks.

Dear KondalRaoGuy,
Is Kondal Rao still dead?
Is Kondal Rao a brown hairy tarantula?
My hello's to Kondal Rao.

I'm sure you have a dog named Swaminarayanan.
My hello's to Swaminarayanan too.

Can you help me name all the 3 dragon flies in the glass jar please?

Of warmth

The rains showering down all over us
All around us
And not a drop in between us!


(Perverthead,this is poetry.Not developmental biology)

HeartSinks

When you are left with the last cadbury gem
And the neighbourhood kid, the bully, barges into your room
His eyes popping out at the sight -GEMS!i want it!i want it!
Does your heart skip a beat?

When its raining,you go out near the glass window pane
And collect the drops with your cupped palm
walking back to your seat,dogbert handshakes your's with mrs.wheat's
And when you feel the drops escape without complaining
Does your heart skip a beat?

When you've lent a book to somebody
And you see them carelessly sip from a cup,hot coffee
or when you watch them step out in the rains, jolly
Does your heart skip a beat?

Of being just a spectator when something's spectacular?

Insignificance? Indignance?
To now sometimes feel like you are some kid made to sit in the strands of a stadium,one hand held by a gentle nanny, given a brightly colored ice-candy to hold in the other and being told repeatedly in the ears- "Kid, sit!enjoy! Watch the big boys play the game.Watch them make their moves! Cheer and clap! clap clap clap!".


Do all things except fairy-tales end with a sigh? Or do they begin with a sigh?

Sorry,Mr.Butterfly

This city is sad and has no dead butterflies. So, the other day when i was badly looking for a dead butterfly body, i made a gun of the first two of my fingers,folded the rest and shot at all the dragonflies and flutterbies i could spot.

That night,in my dreams,it rained butterfly bodies.

Upon arrival

When you come next, pluck a whole bunch of the dried dandelion flowers. And we shall spend the rest of the evening blowing tiny white parachutes off their stalks into the crimson evening sky and chasing them. Tiny white parachutes all over my place. Tiny white parachutes all over me. All over you. Tiny white parachutes between you and me.