They forgot to snip the umblical cord. Reception still exists. The kind I dont want. Her aches drone through to me. It taps me on my shoulder when i forget.
It has impetuously let in the same knobby vein on the right hand, the single stubborn stub of hair under the chin,the hasty retort and the lull after.
Even distance is a blunt scissor.

peevish insects

tick time in their wings

time's feelers too

hunts and stings

from the branch of my broken tune

a wonted sorrow flew

but twanged in its wake, a different song

a prankster craving new.

to the famous void,
where is my time?

As a child I loved other names.....or wished my name had a Sankrit twang to it.
Even a silent alphabet would have done.
Then I started associating with it.As rotund and semi-strange as it sounded,I slowly grew possessive of it.
There was a feeling of being nowhere,but now of ‘nowhere’ I am the imperative.

how do i tell a story? so much to say uncompromisingly in little fable parts.i have never once even told it to myself....and if i had mouthed it to the mirror,nothing was more unconvincing.

how do i layer it? things i feel are a never ending matryoshka doll.

how do i know when to stop? what to catch and where to match.....i'm filling a crossword while caught in a typhoon.


a truth when mouthed,
doomed to live as a story,
bland if not adorned.

so i have kept it aside
as a secret
to speak when i am mourned

clever pauses
makeshift signs
i wish you were there
between the lines

The tiny windows of this room were remembered by the maids only in the afternoon.Forgetting and remembering happened in a cyclic manner,with the matter-of-fact-ness and ease of habit.They fling it open,and as if repelled by the view,run off to the beck and call of routine.
Over joyed by the unguarded passage,light impatiently streams in.Within a matter of eye-missing seconds,it smeared on the adjacent wall,bumped off the idle steel tumbler(the prude seemed too shocked by the violation),woke up the glass pebbles,made rude faces on the wall,flushed on the forgotten wooden table,crept through my bed and finally,exhausted by excitement,settled puffing and panting on my trembling black coffee.

MOVIE:8 femmes
SONG:not to be alone

Not to be alone
We get a dog
Surround us with roses
Or worship a cross
Not to be alone
We believe in fairy tales
Are fond of memories
A shadow, anything will do
Not to be alone
We long for spring
And when it's over
We long for the next
Not be alone
I love and wait
It makes me believe
That I'm not alone
Not to be alone
Not to be alone

Not to be alone
Girls like girls
And boys like other boys
Not to be alone
Others have children
Children who are alone
Just like other children
Not to be alone
We build cathedrals
Where all lonely souls
Hold on to a star
Not to be alone
I love and wait
It makes me believe
That I'm not alone

Not to be alone
We make friends
We meet them on those difficult nights
We live for our money, our dreams and our palaces
But we will never make our coffins in two places
Not to be alone
I live with you
I'm lonely with you
You're lonely with me
Not to be alone
We live like this which makes us believe
We're not alone

most of our worries simply put in 4 phrases by Yeats

...The fool's triumph, nor yet

Love lost as soon as won,

Nor the best labourer dead

And all the sheaves to bind...

The ear strained as the flight descended,and the zillion lights below erupted into view like an adolescent’s pimples.
Fast thoughts,still face.Ear still blocked.The long wait to see land is over.Its looming near and I still cant decide on how I should behave...

automated sliding doors with decision problems are to be avoided.

The door with a 'Closed' sign

All the upturned chairs would make the small ,really small patisserie look like it was playing dead.

I would not be fooled(the best is always in the end) and would try to coax the man with the broom to nugde it alive.....atleast a small corner of it....one limb....because I would be deliriously craving the last crumbs of something good that is always left behind
The ceramic plates would go a-clanging and I would talk…or not talk.
Comfortable silences,spurts of conversation and many comfortable moments later,I would wistfully watch people walk past,like the slipping phrases of a poet's thought...one of them would accidentally bump into the door and it would ever so gently sway...

the door with a ‘closed’ sign...

When something moves so rapidly, it tends to look so still.

A flurry of unsettled thoughts-tea leaves swirling with the spoon-chasing, dipping, floating, scurrying.

She had stepped out unescorted-flushed by her own audacity and calling god, by habit.In her head,she had thrust flags into the bosom of every step and conquered it.

Her apprehension had been replaced with a newer one....

the longing to belong and to fall irreparably in love with longing.