Moth Love

Girl's Night Out was every Wednesday night. This week, they made reservations for 8 pm at this old bar downtown. It had been long since they had indulged in loud noises and nectarine mead.

She picked her favourite outfit in gossamer, and powdered her arms, blushing as she mulled over what she was going to share with the girls tonight.

The boys she had met were old, dull and asymmetrical. A heartless breed of tricksters who'd initiate entanglement through meaningless flattery. She'd wanted something that was long lasting and beautiful. A relationship that would not end in death, decay or caterpillar children.

They flit around each other sharing stories from the week, when suddenly they noticed her glowing from the inside.

She sniggered and unveiled the bright man she had met. Of how she singed to his touch and burned at the thought of his name. "I made love to a ball of light" she said rubbing her belly.

They were blinded as they witnessed the birth of a new breed of fireflies twinkling around the bar.

* For Magpie Tales

** For 3WW

September's Fern

I was looking for that title
amidst a heap of old books
when suddenly those golden letters
glistened in the dark.
Switching on the light,
I felt the hard bound spine
ripping at the center
opening up to the folds
of an overused page.
Therein lay the frail veined carcass
of this perfect autumnal leaf.
Holding the framework of a fuller past,
it was fragmented with slashes of symmetry
with perforations as frail as
a spider's web.
Outlining the remnants, I drifted
back to the Fall of 2006
when I had moved to the United States
to pursue the passions of a geek.
September unraveled to a newcomer
like a bag of skittles.
With a promise of change,
of happiness, of love.
A motley of rust, yellow,
green, brown and red.
A crispy nip in relationships,
that would make me sing songs
and dance around trees.
I lifted that fossilized leaf
and held it against the sky
to sieve out stars.
Appreciating the current summer
thanks to that year's Fall.




*For An Imaginary Garden with Real Toads
** For 3WW
*** Photo Credit

Everything she feels is Red

Dabbing a dash
on that canvas.
She ends up dousing
the entire surface
with Red.
Red. Red. Red.
She chants.
Pomegranate wine.
Beetle juice.
Murdered bloodstains.
Menstruation.
Signs of lost virginity.
Seepage from a warm lamb
waiting to be marinated.
A kaleidoscope of varied emotions
Which we still define
With a single
Red.

Like when she sat there on those redbrick steps.
Her rougened cheeks pinched with excitement
as they learnt to conceal a blush.
That vermilion of requited love in marriage
had found its way by parting her forehead.
She squatted with the poise of a newly wed,
with the ends of her maroon ghunghat 
tucked perfectly between the gaps of her teeth.
With bright gums, she smiled innocently,
masking her brazenness under the veil.
Of scarlet passions, her docility
concealed the potentials of seduction
that he would experience
behind closed redwood doors.

But the red she felt when kissed,
Tasted unlike the red of swallowed guilt.
A lump of swollen red stuck in the throat
tainted with hues of possessive rage.
Burning embers of furious red,
emblazoned her eyes
as her husband turned rose-pink
at the mention of his auburn-headed mistress.

Turmoil, anguish and angry red,
twisted within her innards.
Poaching ulcers in her mouth
she chewed on dark betel leaves,
to build up a storm.
Splash.
She spewed the contents
from her coral tongue
on to a canvas.
Yet the new formed creation
was celebrated as
your everyday
Red.



*For Photo Credit

With a little sprinkle of magic on you

Twisting my tongue and raising one brow
I spend hours contemplating about Magic and Hogwarts.
Knowing well that when I secretly say ‘Expelliarmus’
You will be disarmed
And let go of your guard.
Willing to dance like crazy
In the middle of the street.
Like me.

*A word count post for Imaginary garden with real toads

** For Photo Credit

Bandra in my Nose

This whole land was the sea
And we stood on the shore there every day
Sand sprayed
With grains of salt in our hair
And the scent of fish dragging behind our feet.
Bandra smelt like the residue of the Ocean
Pure and aquamarine. Not like your cheap Cinthol soaps.
Freshness meant plunging into the frothy waves of salinity
Licking the seasoning off our lips.
And then the land was reclaimed.
The sea vomited on us
Repulsed by the fact that we had pushed her back.
So we threw out more shops.
Shops with spices to mask the putrid smells.
Vendors sold fruits to allude sellers to freshness
The musk of incense sellers, attar manufacturers and bakers,
The stench of milk and mawa makers
All found their place on the street
To distract us from the scents of our childhood
But deep in the heart of the bazaar
As I twist and turn through its narrowing roads
I find myself gravitating to the center of the fish market
With dried mackerel, pomfret, shrimp and crab
Oozing odours that dance with my olfactory senses.
I just close my eyes and find myself
Flooded with memories of the forgotten sea.


*Photo Credit: Makrand Karkare
** Musings for The Collage Collective Studio, Bazaar Road, Bandra

Motions of Emotion

With scabs that covered craters on the surface,
she camouflaged the scars that ran deep.
Her skin prickled into pearly white mountains
as vagrant thoughts left her gravitating towards him.
Drawing attention through tidal waves,
she influenced seventy percent
of what he was made of,
but let go of the imaginary reigns
that controlled him.
He scoffed away, sullen and adamant,
to create a distinct new revolution,
to stand out from the other eight,
to leave a mark in the universe.
So she stood there at a little distance,
trying hard to hold her ground.
and silenced her irrational impulses,
by orbiting around his space.

Because he was her world.

* For imaginary garden with real toads

** For 3WW*** Photo courtesy LayoutSparks

New Old Cold!

I stood there
Anaesthetized and
Frozen to the sidewalk,
Engulfed by the echo
Of a whistling windchill
That found my skin
Through layers
And overalls.
Cold and fear
Amalgamated with
Pinched memories
That spiked
Like shards
Of uneven glass
Splintering through
Follicles of gooseflesh.
I pictured his kind face
Like a hologram
That stood out
And blended
Within the crowd.
Prickled skin
Softened to faith,
And sensation
Kicked in
As I held that
Accustomed cup
Of sublime heat.
I quickly learned
To jumpstart
My world
To the present.
To the love that
Brought me back
To a country
Long left behind.
When suddenly
Those relentlessly
Nipping reflections
Of minus degree'd
Hardships
Melted softly,
Like the season's
First snowflake
That assimilated
Into this
Untouched mug
Of caffeinated delight.







* For 3WW

** For Theme Thursday

*** Photo Credit: Design-Dautore

She Waited

Photo Credit: Maria Sardari

So she’d wait there after midnight, behind a curtained wall frame
Stealthily whispering whistles to call out my name
Dragging fearful memories with every stride
I’d take refuge in an old cupboard and hide
Peeking through the chink as she came

Her silhouette would burn with a platinum flame
Long soggy hair-strands would veil her shame
Soft sobs broke into screams as she cried
So she’d wait there after midnight.

This was the home she had hoped to claim
One that was etched with her future last name
Black-sooted droplets of tears had dried
She had longed to be an army man’s bride
He’d promised her the stars, but he never came
So she’d wait there after midnight.





* For imaginary garden with real toads
** My attempt at Rondeau Poetry rhyming, dedicated to Friday the Thirteenth 

Unformed

Mouth to mouth
I breathe out
And fog up the reflection.
Soundless droplets of mist
Cling to mercurial glass
And sit there, holding on
To words that haven’t
Been conceived yet.

There’s a twinge
In the pit of my stomach
A seed of life
That has promised to sprout.
My innards have coiled down
With a patchwork of bulky nerves
Thatched together to create
That perfect nest.
As I crumple into the sink
And vomit yellow bile words
But no one hears a thing.

I walk into the closet
And raise my tee shirt.
Cupping both palms
Around the navel
I look through its passage
Into that kaleidoscope of life
Where the umbilical
Connects to the netherworld
With those gone away,
With those dead.

I look into its father's eyes
Dilated brown irises
That collapse
With unconditional love
As I resign the world
In silent deep sleep.

* For 3WW
** For Imaginary Garden 

Ready for the Kiln

Your fingers.
Those long artistic feminine reins
With flesh, bone and supple skin
Met mine
Manly, unpretentious and calloused.

Your little palms
Were lost in mine
Finding comfort in the gaps.

Emotions cemented skin on skin
Contours and crevices well-fused.
We held our fate lines
In one firm squeeze
With the head and heart in place.

Giddied by your touch
My thick stubby hands
Transformed
Into dancing dervishes
That whirled and swooned,
Pivoting slowly
Around the wheel
Of your assertive palms.

Those small stern hands
Were indeed your own.
But in yours alone
Mine were clay.

REM Adventure

He was still in the restroom, rinsing the remains of his last meal with a minty mouthwash routine. With one last impatient gargle, he ran his tongue over the ridges of his teeth to see if he had missed a spot. Satisfied he stepped out, into the darkness of an undisturbed room.

She lay there on her left side, in the foetal position, with her toes pointing to the wrong side of the bed. Wrapping her arms around her knees she slipped into the second stage of deep sleep.

He stared at her lovingly, while her feet twitched at 30 second intervals. Her shiny black curls spread across the paisley-printed bedspread like the tangled branches of a weeping willow on a summery afternoon. Her crinkled nose and knitted eyebrows told him that she was contemplating something.

He kept his backpack at arm’s length and continued to look at her. With a quick glance over the items on his checklist, he noticed that the flashlight wasn't there. He walked towards the store-room and found an electric rechargeable torch and a can of bug spray on the table. Putting the new items into his haversack, he headed back to the bedroom, and saw her in the same crouched position.

He looked confident and was better prepared this time around.

The frequency of her twitches had increased. She jerked and winced from time to time, moving anti-clockwise again. The feet took charge while her other limbs moved slowly in perfect synchrony. She turned a whole 180 degrees around till the neck found its spot on the accustomed mound of her slightly firm pillow.

She was in the Rapid Eye Movement phase, and he knew he had to be quick. He slipped in right next to her on the mattress and clasped her hand. Effortlessly, he placed the tips of his fingers on her fluttering eyelids and lifted them with ease. 

Astral travel is not for the weak-hearted. Holding hands they were suspended in mid air with no control over their being. He was tumbling across time and space, with his backpack flying freely behind him.

They'd committed to sharing a dream together.
The movie had just begun.

In Exchange

For the number of times that I have thought you don't exist,
I could have...


...sailed across 24,906 miles around the earth. 
And surfed on a sea of countless copper pennies.

...flipped through 478 crisp white pages in 963 old books.
And connected those shiny fragmented dots on an indigo sky.

...consumed 1,848 rich calories in every greasy meal.
And wasted endless hour-full minutes in wishful thinking.

...built five-story houses from 1,84,000 well-glazed bricks.
And installed a private salt-water lake made of tears.

But because you still dwell in the crevices of the heart.
And you survive in every gushing pulsating milli-beat.

The equations are now in perfect balance.

And I'm left with Nothing.

Second Chances

It didn't happen very often any more.
It had been 73 days since they'd been to the home by the country-side.

Unbrushed, unkempt, it seemed like one of those 8:00 mornings when she would walk straight to the patio, opening her eyes to lush verdant liveliness.

The roof alternated slats of solid mahogany with clear glass creating a piano-like shadow in front of her feet.
She stood there in her night shirt and soaked in the morning sun like a little child in the meadow. Dull gold rays highlighted her cheek bones, revealing hints of crusty mascara and patches of unremoved make-up from the evening before.

He squinted in her direction, rubbing traces of indulgent sleep from stubborn lids, and stared at her silhouette with no guilt.

She was prettier than he could remember.

He worked his way into the kitchen and came back with two cups of piping hot coffee - Hers, 2% milk fat and his, half-and-half. Accompanying them was a tray of her favourite dark brown biscuits with sugar crystals encrusted around every edge. He put them on the patio table and carried their cups to where she stood.

"I hope this isn't awkward..." he paused looking away towards the hills. She took two steps closer and curled her fingers around his arm.

They had married each other 9 years ago.
It had been 73 days since their divorce.

Muted Thoughts

We sat there quietly in the snow,
Under the same moon of the year.
And slouched together, back to back,
Staring at the woods from two sides.

Filling conversations with muted words
We dialogued over thoughts and things.
She said I said she said I said;
Without so much as opening our lips.

Who'd break the silence?
Who'd make the first move?
She knew I couldn't
I knew she wouldn't

There were silences before.
The Sound-less silence.
The Judgment-free silence.
The I-understand-you silence.
The You're-a-bitch-but-I-love-you silence.
But the jagged edges of the How-could-you silence
Kept echoing all around the space.

We couldn't pick up from where we'd left
In five revolutions around the sun.
So we sat there tongue-tied, back to back,
Glaring at the same dark sky.

I wanted to remind her
She wanted to remember
The amazing friendship we had once shared.
But we continued sitting there, back to back
So that neither of us was cold.

All I Want is for You to...

Surprise me with custard apples in April

and snowflakes in Bombay's November.

Find me a flawless orange maple leaf

and ink my back with a black sea horse.

Sing to me with made-up words

and recite about love in a foreign tongue.

Cajole me into wearing fuschia silk

and tie up my hair in an unkempt braid.

Touch me without touching me

I wish to bathe in your warmth.

Spoil me for I can be spoiled

by nothing and everything.

Hold me on the brink of life

and breathe harder when I miss my breath.

Take me back to that little girl

who believed in flying with gossamer wings.

What did you Expect?

That habitual 

glint. The

same dilated

size.

You searched

for my love

in her
willful eyes.

You stared

harder to

catch one

little glimpse.

Of a world

forgotten

and left

behind.

You looked

for my dreams

in her
wide eyes.

How would it

be there?

My love

was Blind.

Dazzling Emotions

It had been eons since she was besotted by the sky. Her wavy dark hair circumvented her space sending livid ripples of love-lost fury in all directions. She gurgled towards him brimming with hope and love; and came lashing back home when she found none.

Until one calm dark night when she sat by herself and observed her muse with a smirk. It dawned on her then that she was actually mesmerized by those shiny little trinkets that covered every inch of his expansive frame.

So she scuffed, scuttled and shuffled her feet, without a second glance above.
For she had learned to braid her own tresses with stars.

Little Dents of Venus

Two well chiseled dimples were etched and engraved right above those cushioned mounds of fullness. 

I wonder what it was that made her back laugh so much, so often.

Guzzle On!

Slightly cool-headed Ms. Pinot Grigio was bursting to jump out of the bottleneck and be one with her long time love, Sir Whine Goblet, the Third.

She unfurled herself as hot passionate mist mingled with desire.

Transparent in each other's arms, we saw through them.

Through the wine.

Through the glass. 

Through their love.

They consumed each other in perfect unison, leaving little droplets of sweat on the unsuspecting drinker's palm.

Stupid little you-know-who!

Cupid, you cross-eyed little lazy bas***d! That terribly squint arrow of yours somehow found its way to my heart.

And now you leave with a half-assed job?!

Aim for THAT guy, 20 steps to your west...

*Twang*

...ohh nevermind that! 

SHE's pretty too ;)