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

The Chronicles of House Lannister - The Imp, the Cripple and the Mother of Madness

Jamie Lannister's Valyrian steel needed no whetstone. The blade was accustomed to sharpening itself whilst slicing through skin, flesh, tendon and bone in one single stroke. But what good was steel to a man with no sword hand? The man who had sworn to be the King's guard and eradicate every enemy of the throne was now sitting near the stairway, with only five fingers to count.

"I don't have my right hand, but at least I'm not Theon Greyjoy!" he winced, thanking his stars for not having met Ramsey Bolton. He continued drifting into sleep, whispering "Cercei. Cercei," as he imagined the pleasures that he could continue to experience with his left hand.

Tyrion walks in, feeling faint and squeamish as he discovers Joffrey's love for violence against anything that moves. He looks at his amputee brother and squeals "Winter in coming, but that doesn't mean you need to as well!" as he brushes off images of his naked medusa-headed blonde-haired evil sister making love to his brother.

"By the Gods of the 7 Kingdoms, Jamie, you can't possibly tell me you still want her! Incest breeds vermin. With the release of Joffrey from your loins, you very well know that science doesnt need to evolve and prove that you shouldn't engage in coitus with your twin!"

Cercei enters with a scroll, beaming and mocking Tyrion, knowing full well that she was holding King Robert Baratheon's Will between her fingers. She cracks open the wax seal and sits there with raised expectations.

To My Lady,

I, Robert of the House Baratheon, know that you, Cercei Lannister, My Queen, have served me well. The wine on my lips curbs me from running around circles, so I'll be brief.

In your time here at King's Landing, you have tried many things.

Gore. Check.
Sex.Check.
Gore whilst having sex. Check. check.
Sex with me. Check.
Sex with twin brother. Check.
Sex with other Lannisters. Check. Check.
Blond children. Check. Check. Check.
Ordered mercenaries to kill enemies. Check.
King dead. Check.
Ned Stark dead. Check.
Joffrey dead. Check.
Tywin dead. Check.
Valar Morghulis. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check.

Plot twist - You can fuck and kill anyone you want Cercei, but the Emmy still goes to the Imp.

You therefore inherit 10 Gold Dragon coins, to enable you to enroll in the best acting class at Westeros.

Signed without sarcasm,
Your Dead Husband



*For 3WW

**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

A Rorschach Butterfly

Supporting the spine of that threadbare book, he quickly leafed through those worn-out pages. The letters spluttered across the sheet in random bunches, hanging onto the lines like it were a cliffhanger. The typeface cunningly realigned itself and spread out its gossamer sail, to take its new reader through a well traversed route.

The tired characters had said the same lines and repeated their actions across all 1495 pages. They walked across pages and complained about arthritic pain.

“We’ve been overused and forgotten. No one remembers us for our valiance!”  Can one always care about the new reader when the repetition feels so degenerate? So the main characters went on strike, probing the weaker ones to take sides. They plunged away from the staple seamed center and chose to float away, drifting apart on pages that chose different directions.

He reached out to the now emaciated book in his hand, and gathered irrelevant parts of the main story. And mused as he gathered the ripped sheets, trying to make sense of the whole from its scattered parts.
He critically analyzed the story-line, finding fault in the one who penned this plot. 

Thinking he'd nailed the epiphany of the author, when he hadn’t even left the shore. 

* For 3WW** Photo - The Landscape with Butterflies by Salvador Dali

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