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

Selling Fruits with 2 Master's Degrees

HE
I have sat here all day.
Stood up sometimes.
Stood up cause
I could sit no more.
I can't stand it.
Stand it I must.
I must
I must
I am Indrapal.

ME
I am Karishma.
I have been sitting patiently
Waiting for the right thing
To come my way
I have many talents
Many qualifications
Degrees
2 Masters degrees.
One in English.
One in Social Psychology.

HE
I understand people's psyche
And have, Madam, mastered two
A double masters from Kanpur
In Sanskrit and Hindi
Try kiya maine
Everything I tried
But no luck
No job
Jo Marat woh karat
I sell fruits
Fruits that appeal to your senses
Mastering languages didn't work
But I still play with the tongue
I still please the tongue
With fruits
Juices that flow
That flow and melt on your tongue
Your tongue
You still have a voice

ME
I have a voice
I have a choice
I understand the mind
I work with lines
Powerful lines
Lines for brands
I sell my lines
To ad agencies
Lines that come from my being
I don't work for people
I freelance
Freelance as a writer
I am my own boss

HE
I am my own boss
I sell fruits on the street
No one to tell me where to go
Or what to do.
But at 50, I have asked my friends
To help me with a job in Canada
If I find one. I'll go
To Canada

ME
Canada is the neighbouring country
Of the United States of America.
That's where I will go
My husband is waiting for me
As I wait for my visa
Waiting to make the most of my time
But right now I will do my best
I am working on a play
Do you watch plays?

HE
I watch life. It goes by in front of me everyday.

ME
Will you come watch mine?

HE
I promise you I will.

*Theatric Piece 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

Swan Song

Clinging to the contours of her calf muscles,
the fine thread-work of motherly innocence
dipped its silk, and licked the surface
of those still grey waters.

The voices in her head had made their peace,
when the argument met with a quiet scream.
The blood on her hands had curdled
from the blood of her womb.
Squinting to salvage the last tear in her eye,
she ambled stoically to the middle of the lake.
and saw the rejected duckling
murmur softly in the glistening black waters.

The broad-laced wide-eyed bodice
sprawled around and braced her frame.
Pivoting on one foot, she swiveled
to bury the remains of her seed under her sole.
Swirling on ripples of unwashable guilt,
she tried her best to spiral downwards,
and wished to drain away
through that wide gaping manhole.

But the black swan sat there cursed
to a cold world sans imagination,
for never again would she find herself
tumbling down that rabbit hole.





* For 3WW

**Photo Credit: Actor Lisa Dwan in Beside the Sea captured by the lens of Graeme Robertson

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

Beyond Ferraris

His fast red bullet of fire on four wheels,

Was abandoned in the middle of a highway lane.

Ye canst not ignore heartstrings on pinwheels,

When the epiphany of a beggar hath driven him insane.

The workings of karma befuddled his domain,

So he went to seek answers from an old abbot.

Giving up his fast car, the monk learned to sustain,

By finding nirvana on his newly bought yacht.

* For imaginary garden with real toads

** An attempt at the Huitain form of poetry, also called The Monk's Stanza

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 

Invisible Ideas

My mind
reads like
the open canvas
of a New
Word Doc.
Barren blankness
spread out thinly.
I rummage through
the recesses
of my brain
and hack hard
at the keyboard
without a flow
of thought.
Stream of
Consciousness
is a dwindling
brook with
spurts of water.
Little winged
black birds
dip into this rivulet
and splash across
the parched screen
with a voracious
appetite for
vocabulary.
Strung by the
invisible chord
of syntax
and the unused
facets of grammar,
they cluster
in seeming
randomness,
forming syllables
in a sharp
unbold typeface.
The birds are
backspaced
while other
clusters are
pasted elsewhere,
flapping wings
to stay together
as a whole.
Forced to migrate
from a different
starting point,
they fly across
with meaning
on their backs.
But where
the heck
is the damn
punchline?



* For imaginary garden with real toads
** An attempt to parody one's own style

An Afternoon Stroll

She rolled up her hair as she walked through a garden patch.
Beautiful tresses of black silk were fastened in place by sticks.
The groggy green frog sat there croaking by the road side.
Cutlery unwound to click away on unsuspecting street food.

* For imaginary garden with real toads

** An attempt at the Koan style of Chinese poetry 

Hark! Hark!

The Lark at heaven’s gate sings
like a snow Goth minstrel.

Halo punked and wings pierced,
she’s zipped her fawn boots to the knee.
With lips that ope to concert lights,
she head bangeth to a little rhapsody.

A newly wired electronic harp
finds psychedelic love in angel tunes.
Soulful notes are amplified
through manna snorted melodies.

She screeches for thee, oh human one
To shuffle off that mortal coil
For heaven paints a picture bright,
but it ought not to be as bad.

* For: imaginary garden with real toads

** Inspired by a few lines from the 'Bard.'

That Cuppa Joe's

Photo by Margaret Bednar

Sitting there with his demitasse,
shards of thoughts made a word cloud
in his fragmented mind
and brought pointillism on cheap tissue.

He pressed the nib
on his single lined writing pad,
making the ink bleed into
damp latte-stained rings of patience.

But the sentences of expectation
had abandoned the creative mind,
leaving the contours of a cursive hand
with nothing to write.

He bridged two coffee circles
with a half-mooned hairline
and filled the spaces below
with irises of joy.

Doodling his way down
the writer found his muse,
the artist beamed at the big picture,
for Mickey Mouse was born.



* For imaginary garden with real toads
** Photo Courtesy: Margaret Bednar

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 

Shutterbug Souvenirs

Times Square

They stood there
Captured
In the middle of the crowd.

A moment of bliss
Seized
Amidst seconds of pretend poses.

The frenzy of travel
Stamped
Across their postcard-couple faces.

Episodes of uninhibited joy
Confined
Within the boundaries of the four by four.

With "I heart New York"
Marked
To sign off that adventure.

One that began eight years ago,
Sealed
With knickknacks of vows made in the Big Apple.

Trinkets of fond memorabilia, now
Boxed
In a carton of cardboard from the past.

Little pieces of glossy paper that stood
Unfazed
Next to the menagerie by the mantlepiece.

Teenage Woes

I really don't know what happened.
Munching on new foliage of mulberry,
I fell asleep on the tattoo artist's chair.
And awakened to a rude change.
I've lost those curves and all my pretty feet.
My appetite's not the same.
I can't stand to chat with those sissy coloured flowers,
With so many annoying boys flitting around.
They say I've transformed into art on wings,
But I just want to go back to my cocoon.
Metamorphosis, my ass! It's the tattoo guy's fault.
I'm pretty sure I didn't ask for a blue Jesus on my lower back.

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.

Waterworks!

The black sun grew bigger in that red almond sky.
With a parallel universe right across the nose bridge.

The horizon had welled up.
The ocean was overflowing.
The world couldn't hold it all together.

Waves collected over those mascara-free shafts.
Squirting outside the basin line.

Salt-water Waterfall.

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.