I want you to bring back
kaapi in those small glasses you can
see his eyes through while you watch
him pour the tea and the milk in a type of
neat choreography over the metal
counter you lean on, and the
Continue reading “Wishlist From Kerala”
Why does the sky never get dark around here?
I mean, dude, they call it midnight black for a reason.
But around here, nine o’clock is ash gray and midnight is battleship gray,
But I’m looking for those bullets in white. They told me
you are a star now Continue reading “Searching for Signs of my Mother.”
It was supposed to be about going back and trying to understand this city again. But for some reason, everything seemed different and less… colorful. This city has become strange. All of a sudden, it’s full of boundaries and locks, and I am a trespasser in a stranger’s home.
But the thing about colors, I’ve learned, is that they come and go. And for every utterance of never and forever, the punishment comes with another stroke of gray. And as that paintbrush pushes you forward, your back bleeding against the rough canvas, maybe- just maybe- you’ll be the one adding that bit of color.
Continue reading “Fenced, Locked and Trapped Outside.”
..aren’t we, mere mortals, fully helpless?
How do I study when the World outside is performing Her masterpiece? The wind is singing her beautiful song, an old melody that I’ve learnt by heart; much more brilliant than Rahman and Dvořák (yes, they surely belong in the same sentence). The trees and the grasses perform a dance of their own. Opening the window next to this table I sit at is like encountering a whole another world.
One in which there is a porch with three white chairs, made of a kind of straw. Continue reading “When the Heavens Distract..”
Image from mhoye
The girl bit into her lips as she stepped onto the bus. No, not here, not now. She didn’t like those things that were forming in her eyes. Blinking hard, she rummaged through her bag for the yellow slip, a bus pass- to take her home so that she can cry. The writer pauses at these 0verly melodramatic words. When had she become this kind of writer? Je ne l’est comprends pas, the girl’s thoughts continued, paying no attention to the writer’s apparent deviation. These days, she doesn’t understand much. The writer acknowledges that perhaps she never did. The bus driver gives her a slight nod and the girl dutifully curls her lips up. That’s all she can manage right now.
. Continue reading “Of her Character”