Friday, February 27, 2009

The Come-back

The yellow metal lured while the frail fingers clutched,
Dark nights were denied sleep but love reigned,
In pale cottons with jerry work, in the silent long hours 
Much run stories of mind, they come back vividly, like a cat,
Suddenly upon the threshold of my quiet life, intruding. 
Where would I bury that secret desire, one long love?

One long love, the sacred spaces uttered fearlessly,
For this love that never was or will be bound by time,
Or by hands that touch or lips that kiss or whisper,
Only by a strange silence that tells you about me,
In circular miles that entangle with despair,
They begin nowhere and end nowhere,
A nowhere from where I turned 
But couldn’t find you again, 

When arms entangle in passionate whispers,
Diluting the ancient brine of all losses,
I wish with all my heart that I could erase
One whole day, one wrong word, one moment,
To bring back the same shadows of real life,
That glowed in dark nights a long long time ago.

One small step would have changed time,
If only you with your pale cottons, 
Turned back and listened to what strange tales,
Others couldn’t say for they never knew
The world you were to me, 
In a sacred space that I call my soul,
Not yellow metals that still clink melodiously. 

Thursday, February 26, 2009

Confessions of a Shameless Egotist

All these years of book reading has left me kind of dumb, slow to understanding practical things that my friends and my relatives started to view me as a kind of unrealistic idealistic philosopher-like woman who cared not much about dressing up or looking good or cooking that by the time I was twenty I was disliked by relatives who wanted me to be less studious and by friends who wanted to talk about what other girls talked about. 

I don’t remember being welcomed with warmth in any place except with my one friend of years, whom we will conveniently call Anna, who is just my opposite, very practical and good-natured that even without any effort she is liked by whoever she meets while I stare blank-eyed wide-eyed and finally sleepy-eyed at people who seem to give unsolicited advice about studies, cooking, career and God knows what else.

But with all my obstinacy in choosing my life and making my own decisions I never reached any where, nowhere, in fact with all big big words of idealism and rebellion-Love, Freedom and Creativity. In this also there was this mad act of stupid decision making as if the whole life depended on something or the other or someone or the other and nothing else but love mattered but at some point of time all these romantic ideas crumbled and gave way to a kind of stark realism that was even more harmful. 

I wonder is there a relationship between reality and fiction? Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction. I never believed it until I saw one day that a person whom I know died in an accident. That single person had caused so much of confusion in the minds of people, quarrels, fights, pains and that too all in the name of God. 

Believe me; nobody can give me what such a small stretch of time has taken away from me. I lost a lot of my original enthusiasm in doing things that I once loved to do and the focus I had regarding what I wanted to become, my belief in people and to some extent my belief in God. I became a kind of recluse who refused to open up to people and tortured myself by considering pleasure and happiness as a sin against religion. 

I was sitting idle at home, doing only household chores when I wanted to do something worthwhile. That’s when I started reading all the stuff that I had written over the years, the chronicle of my life during the past two three years. Since childhood I have found books as interesting and since fifteen writing absorbing. I have never ventured anything beyond a few lines in my diaries. 

Personally I believe that the most controversial book is one truthful journal that you write for yourself. Not only controversial, it can be intriguing as well, for you delve deep into your memory and reconstruct your own life as if you were viewing another’s. These journal entries give some sort of insight into my own nature. 

My belief in God and life has changed. As George Eliot says “Joy is the best of wine”. There is nothing in the world like getting up in the morning happy to see the sunshine peeping through the windows, sipping a cup of coffee and humming to yourself all day while doing chores. That’s where I have stopped, seeing God in being happy with myself and the world. 

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

The Chempaka

The chempaka with its ivory-shades and yellow centre is still my favourite flower. I cannot resist picking up a flower from the ground, whenever I see one. In front of the quarters, where we stayed, there was a chempaka that dropped flowers on the well-cut green lawn below. A chempaka in bloom sends out smells, especially at night. 

It was a relatively tall tree; for its branches were near our balcony on the first floor. The little girls who gathered in the evenings and on holidays made a lot of noise as they deftly tied these fallen flowers into garlands. Those evenings were full of energy for them, while I, a little grown-up of fifteen watched them with interest.


Monday, February 23, 2009

Introduction to Daily Meditations by Omraam Mikhael Aivanhov

Every morning, before you do anything else, you must give yourself a few quite moments of reflection so as to begin your day in peace and harmony, and unite yourself to the Creator by dedicating the new day to him through prayer meditation.

It is the beginning that is all-important, for it is then, at the beginning, that new forces are set in motion and given direction. If we want to act wisely and well, we have to begin by casting some light on the situation. You do not look for something or start some work in the dark; you start by lighting a lamp so that you can see what you are doing. And you can apply the same principle to every area in life: in order to know what to do and how to do it, you have to switch on the light- in other words, to concentrate and look into yourself. Without this light you will wander in all directions and knock on many different doors, and you will never achieve anything worthwhile.

Our days follow the direction that we give to our first thoughts in the morning, for, depending on whether are mindful or not, we either clear the way ahead or litter it with all kinds of useless and even dangerous debris. Disciples of initiatic science know how to begin the day so that it may be fruitful and rich in God's grace, and so that they may share taht grace with those around them., They understand how important it is to begin the day with one fundamental thought around which all the other thoughts of the day may revolve.

If you keep your sights fixed on a definite goal, a clear orientation, an ideal, all your activities will gradually organise themselves and fall into line in such a way as to contribute to the realisation of that ideal. Even the negative or alien thoughts or feelings that attempt to infiltrate you will be deflected and put at the service of the divine world. Yes, even they will be forced to follow the direction you have chosen. In this way, thanks to the fundamental thought that you place in your haed in the morning, your whole day will be recorded in the book of life.

And, since everything we do is recorded, once you have lived one glorious day, one day of eternal life, not only will that day be recorded, not only will it never die, but it will endeavour to get the days that follow to imitate it. Try to live just one day as well as you possibly can, therefore, and it will influence all your days: it will persuade them to listen to its testimony and follow its example, so as to be well balanced, orderly, and harmonious.

Sunday, February 22, 2009

Old Friend

Was it the brine of loneliness that shrunk you like this? I can no longer believe, my yellow butterfly that you’ve grown old,
Better looking may be, but I can see age-lines across your heart,
In every word you utter with much effort and pain,

In a flash I remember that ring I wore for years,
Waiting some day that you will bring me another,
I want to laugh aloud, no tears gather,
All tears and more tears I shed night and day,
May be more than you deserve,
I know where that ring lies, must be buried by sand,
For it was thrown into the mud angrily,

Yet it breaks me a little to see this old pickle,
Silent, mellowed who delighted in songs
That taught me the music of joys. 

I wonder whether you remember the walks in the rain
Or the fights everyday or any day that ring,
That lies buried in the mud, in the rain. 

Saturday, February 21, 2009


Flow with the rivers
Fly with the kites
When you come back
You are the river
You are the kite 
No more you. 

Wednesday, February 18, 2009


The master of all absurdities wrote,
None comes, none goes, nothing happens,
Truer of this slow-moving life,
Than of anything else heard or seen.

The hourglass looks still apparently,
Though time moves in steady moves,
And will erase, rewrite, edit whatever was
Written with much pleasure and much pain.

Now the time has come to smile and part,
A farewell that tastes of victory and tears,
Victory that never came when dying of thirst,
A stream of delight for the tired warrior.

For there is no going back in any form,
The absurd heart knows too well,
That some solids shed no tears
Those who only sublimate.

Sunday, February 15, 2009


A blank page, listens in silence,
At this midnight hour, before me.
What fire burns in me, to merge,
Unwritten ellipses of memory
As history, of gains and losses,
A last signature, in black and white.

Friday, February 13, 2009

You and Me

I have a self that knows years of sense and more non-sense.
I stand lone in crowds yet walk with you in green fields at the same time.
I run in many new paths though I never leave my chair but for fresh signs or old paths.

You are my other self, whom I do not know for I have never seen you as you really are, for I was struck blind by your light.Yet I know you were with me in each and every circle round the holy fire and will find you near me in a dream.

Thursday, February 12, 2009

My River Green

Me and my brother with a cousin beside River Pamba

Wednesday, February 11, 2009


Today when I write our short, short story in words,
I want sunshine and laughter, tickles and giggles,
Naughty days and kisses, joys in our land of dreams,
But when words do come they have traces of tears,
A lost treasure, none can see or enter, a little space
A sacred space, where words are ciphers and myths,
Everyday a new script, with details added in for spice,
Beneath starry skies, on the seashore on lovely nights,
Music that heaven played with moonlight and waves,
Now silence, tears, aching hearts and burning memories,
Memories that never heal nor fade, written with fire,
Unreal, surreal, drawn with circles, colours and blood.
We wave desperate, deaf and blind, on either shore,
Having burnt boats and with tears, shout to each other.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009


How can you live like this,
Anywhere but here in this moment,
Held together by a million voices,
Glueing your existence,
In a life that doesnt move,
Yet with plans that astonish,
And never fail to astonish,
With perfect nmaes for baby faces,
In the right order, too perfect.

HOw could you make it more perfect,
When beneath the resounding words,
The intent is hollow and changing,
With the moon, with the seasons,
Before deities that dont reply,
An emptiness chanting promises,
Yet at a loss for words,
For that which matters most,
True, close to the core.

There lies silence and a spirit,
That expands in directions,
And grows inward and inward only,
Eyes blind to the future and past,
Not even this moment alive,
Just there, for another dawn.

In another dawn, when the sky is red,
The spirits may call each other to a tryst,
That never was or never will be made,
Consciously by you or me.

Monday, February 09, 2009

My Roots Strangely

I belong only to you, my dreams.
I do not belong to my place that left as a child.
I do not belong to my family since it is all dead and gone,
with a few bones scattered in a churchyard long ago and far away,
I do not belong to the place where I grew up,
Beside the river green,
Where it was always fun to be playing in water,
Yet too scary to belong,
For there were rightful inheritors,
More rightful than me.

Nor do I belong to a family which calls me my own,
Though the blood that runs through my veins is hardly theirs,
Nor do I belong to some who call me by a sweet name,
They do not know me at all, am a familiar stranger,
Who nods and smiles and passes them by.

Its only you who know me, my crests and troughs,
My feminine spirit and tenderness,
My occasional clownishness in trying to belong,
To some name, some family, some tribe,
Where I do not belong.

You are where I belong, in the terrible silences
and the all engulfing tenderness that follows,
That is the space where I see myself,
As yours having a name and being
other than all these illusions.

Sunday, February 08, 2009


Looking back and thinking,
I cannot believe that this whole story,
Of gain and losses,
Was about a few lies hidden,
A few stupid moves across the board,
That none dares for fear,
A few blind thrashes at the unseen foe,
And desperate lunges at the seen,

You dont know what fear
When you know that it doesnt matter,
For you run far and wide across the vast spaces,
Searching for refuges,
Mirages in the scorching desert land.

You dont know fear either,
When your heart is numb and cold,
Can never raise a war-cry,
But only fight
To live or to die.

Saturday, February 07, 2009


Where will go and hide from me?

In words, or music or in art,
Or in selfless acts
That dissolve and melt,
Your own self,
That being known as my 'you',

From that you whom I know
Like the palm of my hand,
From that you I read,
From every change in voice?

Where will you hide from me?
I do not know you at all now,
For you are my stranger,
Whom I have never met,
Except in some dream,
Where it was nice to feel free,
Float and come back,
With firm feet on the ground.

On the ground with feet firm,
But where are those little wings
Those little dreams,
To turn this refuge alive?

Waking up is never real,
Without a faint feel,
Of a dream just made true.

Friday, February 06, 2009

Dark Angels :How Writing Releases Creativity at Work

Do you associate writing at work with creativity? Do you wish to improve your written business communication? If so, Dark Angels :How Writing Releases Creativity at Work is the right guide for you.We live in an age of information explosion. To survive and thrive in the business world we need to generate as well as communicate new ideas. Accurate use of language is vital for success in any profession.

Simmons points out that writing improves the clarity of communication and enables you to link better with those around you. The title celebrates the myth of human beings as flawed angels. Simmons reminds us that we, human beings are angels with a dark side of rebellious individuality. As dark angels we need to think, question and create rather than accept blindly as angels do. Creativity therefore is rebellion. The first step to unleash the creative genius within us is to learn to think for ourselves. Simmons points out through examples how to compose short and long pieces of writing.

Written in a simple and direct style this book teaches us to discover our own ‘voice’ as well as a sense of belonging to the common humanity. The author gives his own entries in his diary when he was in the process of creating a project on Dove. He also shares his experience as a creative writing instructor at a week-long residential workshop in business writing. He believes that all writers are dreamers and good at communicating their dreams to others.

The key idea in the book is the image of the dark angel who symbolizes personal freedom, creativity and rebellion against accepted norms of authority. Above all, in order to be a good writer, Simmons advises us to be a good reader. Thus this book skillfully combines creativity and business.  

Thursday, February 05, 2009

Twilight zone

My dream, in what strange land has you set me free?
As witnesses to twilights, embraces of dark and light,
Holding in arms, lulling asleep, reluctant partings,
Dual dancers in that uncertain zone, separate, leaves,

We wandered, in those green fields, on those blades of grass,
Our lips drinking sweet intoxicating drinks from silence,
Watching the birds that fly in the blue skies, amazed,
To feel the rain that drenches us lying lazily surprised,
As our love, like starlight from distant stars, at night,
From far away, gazes at where we have roamed,
In day as a stretch of rainbow after heavy rain,
Written clearly against the skies, in vibrant colours,

For this mythical bowl of dreams was always filled,
Everyday with love and hope, now with our tears.

Wednesday, February 04, 2009

A City Glimpse

In the morning light the city lies silent, 
Slowly it awakes with the rising sun, 
And life moves along its streets, 
Children walking to school, 
Joggers on the run to keep fit, 
Vehicles roaring to arrive first. 
I walk with you by my side, 
Through the lanes and roads, 
Turning once in a while to smile, 
Laugh or reply to something you, 
Just told me with the wonder, 
Of a child shining in your eyes. 
I love the city in the morning light, 
Only when you walk with me.

Monday, February 02, 2009


We stood before the altar of silence and I know that this was an amazing experience for both of us, for you who had stayed away from God, and for me, who have always revered the God of silence. Even, in those moments of silence, I have known that this was meant to be. Somewhere in my dreams, I have known a world like this, not in the exact details that matter in every way.  

For the wise have written, it is written that whatever has to happen will happen. For a strange reason I’d never believed in this attitude and after coming here, am surprised to find whatever I’ve wanted put in a manner that I cannot believe my own eyes and this is really a wonderful way of understanding that life is kind towards you and me.  

For long, I went on defining you and me, as we are at this moment. You wait for words of praise from me, while I give silence; while I look for looks of appreciation from you, while you give enquiring glances. 

You speak at times, in tongues that I don’t understand and at times I do not want to comprehend at all what you leave unsaid with your silences. Yet I pause to listen, when your eyes trace my face for what I’m feeling. You say I bring sunshine to your hitherto drab life, that you have never known happiness like this and that these past days of togetherness are the best of your life.

I agree, though I feel the same, I keep quiet, for once uttered this might change into a cliché that needs to be repeated again and again, until the words become worthless like treasures from childhood. Instead I smile and keep your words safe in silence.  

Sunday, February 01, 2009


For there no church bells, no crowds. There was no me looking splendid in a white gown or me crying thinking about leaving home. Only you and me, and a few who mattered, your parents who did everything to make our dream come true and of course, the God of silence, in whose presence we promised eternal companionship. 

No priest uttered the holy words, nor did the laity sing hymns of praise, only I closed my eyes with a smile as you tied the holy knot and bowed down, before you and God. I do not know what prayer my soul heaved, but there was much more in that silence than in the most profound of all prayers.

There were no teasing crowds afterwards, to tease us about our first day of togetherness, to bring blushes to you and me, only your ten pet budgies who watched quietly at the newcomer me glowing in their owner’s complete attention. 

Now many days have passed and we have learnt more about each other through words, touch and fights and the budgies have learnt how to speak in my presence. But it’s the God of silence, who reigns supreme with us as we felt on this Sunday when we stood quietly before his holy altar and prayed for abundant blessings throughout life. 

Pensiamento Fantastico: The Kitchen God’s Wife

Amy Tan’s novels serve as cultural documents that describe the immigrant experience in terms of communality and identity. They con...