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She has been writing
poetry in
English since school days, but its only recently that she has
been into it
whole heartedly and so passionately. She is Lecturer in English
and Communication Skills
Indian Institute of Space Science and Technology
Department of Space.
Migratory effervascence
migration
winged the sky
this late evening
patchy clouds
drifted
to targets
unknown
birds soared
in unison
fondling
the nape
of ocean's
horizon
A Greater part of me
A greater part of me
died a natural death
living a normal life
cushioned with a job
loving kids as a normal
mother does on normal days
teaching them the
bare essentials of life,
alphabets, numbers
and good manners
telling them a fairy tale
a willed erasure of turmoil
that tag along with tales for kids
*(shooing them when they
squeal 'shit' with glee
and gloat over the forbidden)
*wait for the work every morning
with those punctualities
which hardly come by and seep
into my shell tanned and
licked by books and the tropical sun
not so humble a scribe
looking out to find tarmac
taper into the greens
which rise as hills in the
near horizon, clouded by dreams
and melancholy that
foddered muse
once upon a time.
once upon a time?
Often fairy tales
tell you the violence of your
not being a "sleeping" beauty
or a Cinderella whose
delicate toes could "fit in"-
to live and love ever after?
a prelude to unhappiness
from surfeit of happiness?
burdened by bodies
and metaphors
in tales and real life
don't I need those illusions
of a perfect household
to cage my so-called free soul?
Love in the time of Moral Frissons: An Evening in Museum
Where have all the lovers gone? I wonder taking my evening walk
around the
Museum arboretum every day
Here, somewhere behind the high walled buildings, history sleeps
in the
canvasses of Ravi Varma and Rorich and in a few specimens of pre
colonial
artefacts
shored and preserved in glass boxes. They wear down, tear, fade
and emit a
mildewed smell, day by day, year by year
Varma's 'Shakuntala' is also fast fading; her poise of removing
thorn to
take a clandestine glance at her lover does not look poignant
anymore.
This city has buried her lovers, once they used to hide behind
the bushes
moaning at every touch, a kiss and smile
Now the police have muffled all the moan, they say it pollutes
the crisp air
washed and starched to perfection
By the wind and the leaves, the twitter of the birds and the
canopy of bat
droppings that manure the greens
I listen to hip hop with headphones plugged into my ears, to
those voices
seeking help from spiritual communities all over the world
A voice rapping and seeking the cosmic connections to annul his
unwise
bondage between violence and frissons of calm
I longed for lovers, their ruffling behind the bush, hushed
twitter, sigh,
rapturous gasp, I longed for these virtuosities to shatter the
moral façade
of the city
The city of old men and women who shy away from holding hands as
this man
walks a mile ahead of his woman,
The carefully groomed sentinel holding the invisible strings of
her chastity
belt, keeping her in control through
tantrums and disorders. Ah these women! He gasps and turns back
with a
lecherous grin, gazing at her still-so-firm-tits
Even at dusk, the Museum is alive with health watchers; walkers
like me
throng the place chasing love out of its den
Health should survive love and love should die a natural death
as age
progresses, and silence should hush all words
We grin with a nod, killing words, our hurry makes us go round
and round the
outer reaches of the museum wall
Inside a wall a lion sighs a yawn, inside another Varma's
brushstrokes pale
further
~
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