Feast

That constellation you have hidden in your heart. That latticework in which you hold a child's love.

May the light always be.

To The Swan

A window opens into the backyard. Bird songs. I think about the desert winds I have neither written about nor seen. A book about the caravans and their battles is on its way to me.

In a sunlit room, on a swinging bed, a warm afternoon, your voice drifting towards me from the entrance to this home. I wait in a place between a smile and a longing. I had stories to tell and you are finally here.

A mother and her baby in a tiny place somewhere.

Have We Talked About This Before?

Window of a rickety bus.
Muddy road, stinging eyes
In the hot summer wind.
I feel your shoulder
Grazing mine when we turn a corner.

Railings of a wooden bridge.
Silent river, silent thoughts
On a lovely autumn evening.
And I hear your footsteps
Bringing your reflection closer to me.

Cotton papered pages.
Crimson sunset, nervous fingers
After words after words after words.
From across the room, your laughter
Stealing me away from lonely stories.

I sometimes imagine
The tiniest gesture, the softest jolt
That breaks my deepest longing -
A glance from you.

The Lady in Red.

Pebbles in a Pond

With stony certainty, we are sure of some people. We have the pulse of their being what they are. We know them as if their blood flows in our veins.
Sometimes, not so much, about some others.

They had not been sand between the fingers. Not words written on water. Not a sting, not a fall. But they are, now.
They had been sunstone, summer rain. Detours that changed our destinations, enriched our journeys. They still are.

Now, you look at the vastness of the empty space and the darkness of the deep gorge left behind by them; you hold their share of sweet memories they didn't want a part of; you try to make sense of the nothingness in everything.

Dear friend, you held it well, precious, in your palm. And that is why I am sure of you.

When I think about it

Remember those sepia-toned photographs from the past in which relatives you will never meet stare steadfastly at the camera, with just a speck of a smile on their faces? Sometimes, I am one of them - balanced on the fringes of such photographs - whom you dont notice for years.

Sometimes there is so much silence that the depth of this silence takes on a new meaning. Silence that cannot be broken.

I vividly remember your photograph of the bird in flight, its white wings backlit by the sun. Glorious.

C'est la vie

No matter how early I start, the sun beats me down. The glimpses along the way make up for the heat though. So I shall not complain.

Yes, sometimes life is just a catamaran over an angry sea.

Yes, sometimes all you wish for is that your boat doesn't capsize. 

 Yes, sometimes you are that lonely soul at shore, dreaming of sailing away to faraway lands.

Yes, all you have is love

 To splash and paint all lives.

Dedicated to all out there who add their own hues into my life.

Colors

My first travel portrait - a sculpture artist from Mahabalipuram, Tamil Nadu.
I love the tones this photograph has. Tell me what you think!

The artist was gracious - he explained the process to me, took me on a tour of his small sculpture store across the road. The red-green-enamelled elephants he had on display were beautiful.

Speaking of red-green colors, I am also reminded of :
paalakka necklace - a signature necklace of Kerala.
bandhani churidars - from Rajasthan.
samosas with mint and chilly chutneys.

Passion

You want to own, possess, that person in a way he cannot possibly hope to own himself.
You want to feel attached to the things he hate, thankful that they don't belong to him.
You will love the roads through which he has gone. The wind that might have caressed him. The skies that might have been touched by his eyes. The walls on which his hands might have rested. You want to own him without his knowing. You take the ways you think he took. You take in the wind which, you believe, has seen his heart. You envy the places he thinks highly of. You can't bear to think of him in another way, in another day.

You want to listen to him. You know he might not have interest in what you want to hear.. But the possibility of listening to him about anything, for all the times you will spend with him - like the thought of walking to the end of earth, under blue skies, by the blue seas, under trees shedding leaves, crossing bridges with the bluest water flowing for ages beneath them, with him - appeals you.

He possesses you as a passion.

Why Haven't You Called?

call me
like a bird to another
(wanting to fly)
the wings fluttering
together
across blue skies

call me
like the wind in trees
tickling the leaves
and softly,
seep into my veins

there is love in this lake,
in your fingertips;
and one soul, now lives in two.

Beauty Is Also

The Bridges of Madison County.
In the Shadow of Mountains by Steve McCurry.
Patterns and textures You bring to life.

When We Talk

Like, how icy fingers and sweet fatigue
We wake up with
(Did it rain in our dreams?)
Linger at our memories edge.
You look outside the window and the leaves are wet, the city cold.

Like, how fragrance of cut-grass
We walk past by
On a hot summer day
Cannot be remembered again.
The breeze shifts, and now brings you stories of crowded, hot towns.

My India

There are infinite moments like these, when you are hit by lightning and you stop, even as the universe continues to spin. Such a bolt took me to exotic sights, here in Chennai. I was on a re-discover-my-India journey.

One step inside VTI (Victoria Technical Institute on Anna Salai) and I felt the world around me transform. The arts and crafts centre had redefined beauty. Somewhere, someone, in his/her own way, was a Howard Roark.

On the way home, I came across artists painting stories of a bygone era on the Cosmopolitan Club's wall. I am humbled by their existence.

A wonderful Saturday!