Tea Musings

She gazes into

the fawn haze

of her tea cup

He gazes into

the amber pools

of her eyes

Life strangulates love

using the leash of time

At the bottom

of a cold cup

A dream remains

Undissolved

Untasted !

Consumed

Drawing a food chain

I look at who eats who

soul-poetry-love-soul

the vicious cycle 

the soul the first link

the last too

all predators/consumers

in between

Dearly beloved

Did you feel 

my warm heartbeat?

like you sometimes hold

your cup of chai

in both your palms

Did you taste me

as delicately as you

slip a warm roasted peanut

between your lips

I accept now

why love consumes

why you consumed me completely

But you could have done it

with love.

Beauty

Representational image from Google Images

“Sometimes people are beautiful.
Not in looks.
Not in what they say.
Just in what they are.”

― Markus Zusak

She is a team leader

but works mostly from home

She dotes on her daughter

but sometimes misses school events

She talks so much sense

In Skype meetings

If you ignore her bad hair

And the scattered things

She has the most generous smile

and almost instant empathy

she posts inspiring quotes

and never complains about a thing

besides these she looks after

a spouse bedridden

and hopes for better things

She is beauty personified

And in the face of life’s hurdles

She never forgets to sing.

I believe every woman has TRUE BEAUTY within her in all the roles she plays. For over 18 years across 650 plus salons across the country, Naturals has been helping the Beautiful Indian Woman get more Beautiful.

Today Naturals Salutes the Beautiful Indian Woman.


Presenting Naturals TRUE BEAUTY… http://bit.ly/naturalsOF

(I write about several women who are caregivers, sole breadwinners and more for their families.)

Bad Omen

humans are strange

they dress up graves

and coffins

just like they do brides

They won't care

unless your death can fill

their gossip inboxes

the one who might write

lofty obituaries

shall do so

to keep the superhero tag

of compassion 

for the doomed you

you will be alone

dying

drop by drop

or falling

floor by floor

images flashing by

faster than the speed of light

the little girl leaning on her father

the young teenager's first kiss

the woman in love

giving up her world for it

the mother who survived

the child who didn't

the wife hiding the scars

behind the makeup

the brave woman

who didn't let her hand

or her voice shake

even when her soul 

was falling apart

all of you

she loved

she had only soul to give

and a body

but you wanted more

so she let you go

to find your more

and let you push the dagger

deeper and deeper

into her heart

smiling

The mirror had cracked that morning

the hairdresser warned the bride

it was a bad omen!

Don't say you love me

Image : Google Images

Chooses the tenderest words

to describe a lost love

if you choose to remember me

sometime, in a rooftop cafe

whenever on a beach, if

a receding wave brings back memories 

of my impossible dreams with you

smile at the sea

the moment your newborn

clasps your finger in his palm

whisper my name in his ear

tell him he lived in my dreams

if you write an autobiography

leave a chapter blank for me

for ruins can't be mentioned

in stories about homes and families

Choose to move on

for burials must be brief

no words are ever appropriate

don't say you love me

that is the worst part !

Cenotaph

Pushing the sprained ankle

on the accelerator

she wants to speed away

from the invisible 

cage of misery 

She remembers 

his eyes, when he looked 

at her

what if she won't 

bring back the foot

to the brakes

she will die 

on a road

be buried or burnt

somewhere

but his soul will be her

cenotaph

Poison

Pin drop silences

heavy words

both rocks

tied to my ankles

in a lake

the unborn children

I bled

a wet salinity

in the corner of the eye

liquid diet for the soul

toxic like the air

of a beloved soul space

O love

you my nectar

you my poison's taste

DREAMS

Image : Google Images

My slow fingers

draw a thick line of kohl

in which remain 

inscribed the names of 

all my lost loves

my hands shake

my heart flutters

counting the deaths

of lovers, of loves

blood-soaked dreams

I roam the corridors 

of Macbeth's mind

Did I kill my dreams?

Did my dreams kill me?

An Almost Impossible #BlindList

I am going to be 40 in 4 months and I have never taken a solo vacation. 

Yes I have traveled alone a lot, but it was mostly between cities I worked or studied to hometown and even now for work mainly but never for leisure, those trips were first with parents, then with friends ( in an only girls group too, then ex-husband, then child but never ever alone.


Being a woman in India the blueprint is set early, in my small hometown no girl ventured alone even to the school or library. I extended my limits there and learned how to be "safe" along with enjoying the long solo walks up and down the slopes of Shimla.

As I moved to bigger cities for higher education first, then for work and finally due to marriage I did travel alone a lot in jiggling roadways buses, overcrowded trains and shared taxis but there was no pleasure in those trips. Only covering the distance from point A to point B for a specific purpose.

I dressed conservatively, was always careful about my belongings, never became too friendly with a co-passenger so basically followed all the "good Indian girl" rules.

Now I have have finally arrived at writing #theblindlist , I want to #sayyestitheworld and finally let my wanderer soul roam freely.

Picture Courtesy : Picjumbo

The odds still stand, even greater may be- single parenting, Fibromyalgia, the horror of #MeToo stories and yet I want to give the world and myself a chance to do the following:

• Go on a trek in a group of strangers
• Go river rafting and feel the river touch me like a passionate lover
• Go Bungee jumping and feel the blood rush
• Drive with my limited driving skills to a forgotten castle, a secluded monastery
• Take a long train journey, through places where I learn new languages
• Meet a stranger somewhere on a journey and make a friend
• Look at countless sunrises and sunsets from an uninhabited island
• Visit the indigenous people somewhere and live their way for some days
• Wear what I want to wear for once while travelling
• Be on a flight without knowing my destination

MORSELS OF MEMORIES

A wooden elevator

his arm ensuring

she is cushioned

****************

Tea- one sweet, one bland

She takes the first sip

from both cups

he smiles

*******************

 "Your plate looks 

like a painting!"

She smiled and

wiped his lips.

********************

He was in the pool

feeling the gentle rain 

on her face

Their hearts were moist

*****************

She looked at the skyline-

"I want to go away from this city"

He wanted to keep coming back

they were looking for each other

*******************

bodies felt so insignificant

when souls merged

all their curves

Typhoon

the moon they say

affects the waves

The raging sea

a longing lover,maybe

I am the coast

you my typhoon

How THE ALCHEMIST altered me !

Those were the days of a heady pen-friendship that was gradually taking a romantic turn. In late teens in small town Shimla the keen reader me had access to books available only in the rustic, colonial State Library where new titles were rare and arrived couple of years later when they were no longer new.

And there it came as a birthday gift from the mystery pen-friend I was falling in love with – Paulo Coelho’s THE ALCHEMIST.

The inscription read- So that you believe in your dreams!

The shepherd boy’s story had me hooked right from the word go. It connected directly to my wanderlust and traveller’s soul and I was also mesmerised that how a distant friend knew what would grasp my attention firmly.

I loved the way this tale was not just ancient wisdom/folklore turned into modern day motivational and inspirational story but at its core it was essentially a love story.

I was battling with depression; the book uplifted my spirit in magical ways and helped me see light. It made me believe in love and the miracles we simple humans could achieve in love for someone whom we love deeply.

Over the years I bought several copies of this book to gift to almost everyone I knew. This is one book I always recommend for self-help and motivation. It also got me hooked on to Paulo Coelho's blog which led me to become a blogger too a few years down the line.

I today possess several editions of the book, including my favorite of the entire lot is the illustrated one that I often read snippets from to my young daughter.

This is one book that has reinforced my belief that books are the best legacy, the best gift and the most precious unending joy.

The Alchemist has surely altered my chemistry as a reader forever!

“THIS POST IS WRITTEN FOR NOVEMBERSCHILD IN ASSOCIATION WITH KALAMPEDIA – QUEST FOR KNOWLEDGE”. 

India - Her Home #AllForKerala

the blanket looks hand woven

from fresh sheep wool from Himalayas

the cotton sheets bear the fragrance 

of the fields of northern plains

the jaggery, the rice and the pulses

neatly packed in transparent compassion

her younger one wears sandals

with smiling mickey mouse

older one wears salwar kameez

like she never had before

She wrapped the benarasi pallu 

closer to her chest and bent down

the village was still under water

home, childhood, fields, all of it

and yet in this small corner

she had a found 

Some solace- a new family

She thought of love

brothers and sisters 

who had poured love

unseen, unknown before

who had sent warmth and prayers

India was indeed her home !

An Infant's grave

The cursor throbs in pain

of aborting a word

that was a dream

A writer's heart 

is a tender womb

where life hope plants a seed

and life's forceps

pull out forcibly

the last remains of 

a half-formed love

they say an infant's grave

often glows

that's the light

you see in my eyes !

TIME

Time isn't the same river

I am crossing

I ain't the same person I was

And yet rituals 

repeat themselves

like the rotating prayer wheels

kissing Mcleodganj breeze

with shaking hands

and fluttering heart

a soul holds onto life

that looks like coffee

words, noise, smiles

to drown the ache

of an old scar love left

the waterproof Kajal

won't smudge for sure?

the tip of the index finger

pressed at the tip of the eye

she looks at a past

mourning a future !

Blind Love

At the onset

battling the awkward sea

of silence and unfamiliarity

we drifted towards each other

saving the best

of ourselves 

from the world

to exhibit, serve

to get love

once the facade of novelty

wore out

and you saw the scars

you retreated

and I stood there

naked, like a fool

displaying my soul

to someone

who couldn't see 

beyond my cleavage

Who says

love is blind

it is selective delusion !

Roles We Play #FlashFiction

Niru was accompanying him to one of his creative workshops. She was no resource person or anything but just to travel with him, hear him speak. Yes, she was completely smitten by Hiten.

The venue was abuzz with the participants, all young people, some fairly attractive and there he was the cynosure of all eyes, the muse, the mentor , the artist.

Hiten was punctual, he started the workshop in time. Niru was still busy observing people, one young man in particular, reminded her of Hiten years ago, paint on his shirt, pencils scattered before him, completely lost in his creation.

Almost instinctively Niru walked up to him, put her hand on his shoulder and in a confident voice that surprised even herself , she said, " Please be careful about the intensity of your strokes, they define your depth. I am Niru , your Hiten sir's trainer years ago, now wife!"

Hiten just smiled. Niru had finally succumbed to her seven year itch and was back to painting.

This post is part of a blogathon/ BarAthon at Blogarhythm

Fame #FlashFiction

Shyamu sold cigarettes, matches, and tit-bits near a busy crossing in Delhi. He had been here since a decade and now proudly called himself a shop owner in Delhi whenever he visited his village, courtesy his small paan-shack on the pavement.

But the fact was life was as mundane as it could be, between the shop and his small 8 feet by 8 feet jhuugi in a nearby slum cluster, he was lonely and frustrated as hell. Often he visited GB road for cheap sex but that didn't resolve the loneliness part.

One late night as Shyamu was about to shut shop and go back to his room, the pavement dwellers had squattered their skimpy beddings all over the pavement near his shack, Shyamu was hit by a loud thud.....

He opened his eyes in what seemed like a government hospital, flashes clicking and TV cameras and mikes being thrust on to him from every corner....

Shyamu finally had his six minutes of fame , the lone survivor of a road rage accident involving a famous politician's son.... Shyamu was struggling with his words.

This post is part of a blogathon/BarAThon at Blogarhythm

Fight #Flashfiction

Roohi was the most promising child in the karate club. Just 13 she had already won several championships and was now a purple belt holder. Walking back from the class every evening with her mom she saw the kids selling fruits and flowers on the pavement.

One evening she gave the banana she had in her bag to the little girl selling flowers and got to know her name was Radha, she was just seven. The friendship gradually developed, Radha was fascinated by the Karate uniform and displayed some moves she had seen peeping into the Club compound sometimes.

Roohi told her mom that she was old enough not to have fancy birthday parties any more can that money be given as Radha's fees for a basic kaarte course. her mother agreed reluctantly.

Three months later winning her first fight radha ran up to Roohi, "Give me five didi ! WHat do you say - what your teacher told you- hail sisterhoods !"

This was Roohi's proudest win ever.

This post is part of a blogathon/ BarAThon at Blogarhythm

Credentials #FlashFiction

Rosa was in the middle of one of her relationship-coaching sessions when one of the participants raised his hand for a query. The young man looked perturbed and asked, "Ma'am, sorry to say but your profiles says this is your fourth marriage, if you actually knew so much about man-woman relationship, why would your three marriages fail?"


Rosa shifted a little in her seat, suddenly she knew a 100 pairs of eyes and ears were completely focussed on her answer, she smiled and maintaining her composure said, "Good question there! Actually a relationship is two people you see, no matter how much one person works on it or two people do in different directions won't help, it works only when two people work at ot together."

She continued, "Now coming to the first part of your question. Yes I am currently in my fourth marriage, the first was back home in India, a traditional arranged marriage. Next in UK where I went for my doctorate, he was German and this was via a dating service. The third was down under in Australia where I was teaching, he was a native and my teacher, several decades older, and now this fourth one is a decade younger, and Afro-American."

"So as I see it I have seen man-woman relationship from four corners of the world and hence I am a bit over-qualified, over-experienced here."

The conference hall was filled with peals of loud laughter.

This post is part of a Blogathon/BarAthon at Blogarhythm.