"Stuff and Nonsense"

As I turned off the highway into a village road, From the corner of my eye, not daring to look longer or higher, I spotted a peacock Perched in nonchalant grace atop the the divider streetlight. Always the edgy driver,  The infinitesimal look is all I took And smiling, I pointed him out.  Passing, I tried locating him on my rearview mirror, but couldnt. I don't remember seeing the colours Only imagined them there The silhouette and the I-own-this-place look is all I recall. Always the nervy driver, I wondered If it might have been a trickery of my eyes  But pointing out, I found reassurance that the vision was real.  It's been days since that day, And every morning I make that turn, I look up high and long  Wishing that a king of birds Would gladden with poise and vibrance My dusty grey commute But alas, nevermore! The memory of that lone vision alone remains, With a hope - that someday again When I turn off the highway, I will see.

Whirls of dry dust  Make the city air translucent, Detached Bougainville flowers float In a mad trance Like white and pink confetti, I smell rain on the wind. Ill-latched windows Bidding adieu to hinges, Falling from high floors with loud tinkles; I smell rain on the wind. The pigeons hold tight The rusty balcony rails Cock-eyed and stock-still, Underskirts and nighties Billow on the clothesline Struggling to be let free Of the clutching clips; I smell rain on the wind. The children collect their colourful wares And run in all directions To the safety of their homes; I smell rain on the wind. But the man with the rake Continues his sweeping of fallen leaves, In the same rhythm, Unfettered by the ravaging air. The wind doesn’t like this indifference, Rebukes him, Leaves the high floors And swoops down to undo his labour. The man then stands, distraught, Watching his collected pile of leaves Turned and tossed, dispersed again, Labour for another day. Despair not! The wind is only A f...

Penned on 2nd February 2015 On Sunday I was walking towards the platform to board a train. I was barely aware of walking towards the ladies' coach. If I meet somebody I knew, would I ever say that I'm getting married? Would I be as excited about expressing this as I've seen people to be. I spotted a girl eating Fun Flips on the platform. I wish I could give up my own strict adherence to metro rules and rip open the Peppy packet in my bag to set myself a-munching. Would I ever mention that I'm going to get married unless I absolutely have to, say when inviting the said addressee? Why ARE people excited about this phenomenon, anyway? Something that changes your life beyond recognition? Why do people marry at all! That was when I recalled one of the funniest yet most logical explanations of why the institution of marriage was put into place that I'd heard in a lecture. I almost chuckled to myself when I saw that the face of the girl eating Fun Flips looked familiar.  P...

You're sick. You have to do the dishes and rinse off those snotty handkerchiefs. You need to pee so bad. And the sick infant asleep, may wake up any moment rendering any of the above tasks undoable.  But the adhesive the page holds onto your eyes with, is too strong. Even with all that is at risk and the ticking away of every precious peaceful second that you could use for chores, just can't unglue from the book.

My first trip to Triund was in June 2015 with Imam, Ranak and Dharitri. Neha had to drop out as the trip approached because she had a job interview to attend. Good she dropped out, because she did get the job, and missing the interview would have been cause for regret. That had been a dark time for me. I was just recovering from the Herculean task of saying a firm no to a marriage my entire family had been excited about, and my friends were preparing for. The resulting emptiness was waiting to be filled. Up until then, I associated our Northern states and their famous hill stations with nausea and general loss of appetite, as I experienced on our frequent family trips there. Triund was a game changer. We were on a budget, and travelled, ate and stayed humbly. We took an HRTC bus from Delhi to Dharamshala, and from there another smaller bus to McLeod Ganj. The guy who had arranged accommodation for us, Sanjay, had earlier committed to send us a vehicle to ferry us from the McLeod Ganj b...

He'd promised to hold on to her forever, But the frayed clasp finally gave way. The moment of the curtain-fall was painless, Numb. She fell, she flew. Buoyant in the breeze a trifle, And descalating anew. Pirouetting on her helm, She traced a scar in the waving wind, And softly laid her head on the broken bridge. No longer green. Dead. The yellow caught somewhere on its way to red. A black mouth hovers above her shell And with the softest click, swallows her soul whole Immortalized by the silent lens. Forever. 

There's a fort I've visited twice. It's a large pleasant one. Unlike the Ferozeshah Kotla and Tughlaqabad fort, it's not deserted, housing only sad poverty. It is not like the Red Fort either: teeming with politics and commerce. People don't come to this one to click pictures of themselves and the ruins. It is a 'ruins' alright, but a living breathing one.  The weather here is always pleasant; it is never sunny but always bright enough; it's like the beginning of a storm, but without the dust whirls. It's always like a spring morning - or spring evening, spring evening would suit better, yes. It is like that even at noon, even at night.  The fort is built in mud red and blood brown colours. There are huge mounds of mud that one has to climb up and jostle down in order to get through the gateways, such that you could touch the centre of the arch when you're at the top of the mound. The fort is a large place, maybe not as much as the Tughlaqabad fo...

My cousin Runs down the lane, A rupee in her hand, To the little shop round the corner. Her mother, next to me, exclaims, "Look how she runs!" Funny, I think with a grin "Like a penguin," for my aunt I say.  The penguin sent with a rupee in hand To buy ten rolled killers for her father  And slow poison for herself From the little shop round the corner.