Tuesday, June 30, 2009


How can silence create so much of love? You must have asked yourself so many times. Is there anything wrong in silence? For those who learn each other with time, love to sit silent and idle by each other. In their togetherness, there are no words nor there are promises. That's something you with your thousand questions will never understand.

But at times, I want to tell how much you mean to me, how the absences of day-to-day life spurs love in me and how I love even when you dream of freedom and of long-forgotten memories. You mean everything to me, even when you are silent, even when you are absent or even when you stop thinking of me.

Sometimes I feel the aura of your grace coming to mind as a picture of all that is good, great and nice- a big heart I have seen except when you are sad and your heart chokes with pain. But with all the goodness that you scatter around minute by minute, you know how to hide your self within those walls of goodness.

Saturday, June 27, 2009

Wisdom of life

I say: Know your enemy and know yourself; in a hundred battles, you will never be defeated. When you are ignorant of the enemy but know yourself, your chances of winning or losing are equal. If ignorant both of your enemy and of yourself, you are sure to be defeated in every battle. –Sun Tzu

Thursday, June 25, 2009

Sacred Literature of the World: Chosen for Daily Meditation

Last week on my library hunt, I came across an amazing book, a treasure in fact. Sacred Literature of the World: Chosen for Daily Meditation by Eknath Easwaran. The book complies spiritual writing from different traditions, countries, religions and scriptures such as Christian, Jewish, Hindu, Buddhist, Muslim and Native American. The book is a guide to meditation as well as a collection of wonderful food for the soul.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Dream Book

Do you dream of writing a book that puts into practice all the lessons learnt from great writers, be it flow of words, the element of lyricism that can question lines of poetry, vivid images and perfect diction in your pet area. Well, I have carried this dream for a long time and made several false starts as well.

My dream book has the following qualities:

  • It is addressed to my other, my other self, for one whom I write the best of my thoughts
  • Though in prose, the words may be simple, mostly of one syllable and beautiful
  • It is a collection of thoughts at different moments of silence between me and my other self.

But I don’t know when I will write this book and even if I don’t write the book, I want to say this dream aloud to somebody so that I might feel the need to put the dream in the form of words. Do you have a dream book, dear reader?

Sunday, June 21, 2009

That Summer Long Ago

A long summer of uncertainties,
Blazed many unquenchable fires,
Many that burnt and scorched,
Swallowing words and feelings.

A thousand dreams buried soon,
The flow of nature bottled up,
In thick maroon curtains of silence
That hung quite out of place.

A mess of life that stopped there,
In that long summer somewhere,
From where it has moved hardly,
An inch to gain back its momentum.

The words have become sacred,
The spaces no longer accessible,
But memory brings back dreams,
In words said, words left unsaid.

A few lines of poetry can't reveal,
A love that lies dormant in ashes.

Saturday, June 20, 2009

The Case of the Missing Po

There is a bird called Po (the one on the right)in my husband' s chidiyakhana. Yesterday, when I went to see the birds in the evening, I found that the cage was open and that Po was missing from the scene. The others were still there, though the cage was left open. All of us searched the entire corridor, where they are kept. We even searched outside though it was pitch dark and raining.

Finally, today Po was discovered in the room next to the corridor. It must have flown and hid there. Hungry and thirsty, it ran and ate seed when given food. Happy that it was only here and that it did not fly outside through the open windows.

Friday, June 19, 2009


Had you not swore rivalry,
My dear dear yellow rose,
Many lives would've escaped,
The tentacles of hopeless love .

You wanted to fare better
In all six pairs of male eyes,
To be fairer, smarter, lovelier,
Than me everyday of your life.

Your trials were not in vain,
But I would say you were,
Fairer, smarter and lovelier
Than I could ever be any day.

Still you crushed the dreams,
Of many embittered hearts,
Through your lies and advice,
Turned the heads upside down.

Looking back, I feel so foolish,
Surpass me in foolery as well.

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

The Valkyries

Reading Paulo Coelho is like talking to yourself. The flaws and imperfections of the protagonist are often the flaws that you see in yourself. The wild speed in reading it in 4 or 5 hours could be because of this curiosity that grapples the mind as to what will happen to the protagonist in the story.

His books like The Alchemist, Zahir, The Warrior of the Light, Brida, The Witch of Portbello, Like the Flowing River and the Maktub creates a sense of déjà vu. The Valkyries is no exception. His books refresh the mind and give insight into the flaws of human nature.

There are always several places in the book, where you stop and think, "Where have I read that before?" and then realise that it was not in a book but in your own mind that you created a thought similar to that. Coelho's magic has worked once more. Waiting to read the next book that I can get hold of.


You brought with you a little sunshine, a little laughter and myriad ragas of liveliness. Infatuated with you, I could never stop humming songs or stop dreaming of you. You come in those fantasies as an ideal lover, giving and receiving with full knowledge of a lover's desires.

The reality is a cruel world, broken by everyday hassles, mad world that has several faces of happiness and sadness in the single throw of a coin. You don’t appear at all in that cruel world. You like to hide your face amidst the sharp smells of newly printed books and clean sheets.

This love left unsaid has become an obsession that never fades or lets the heart live in peace. May be in the next life, you and I will not have all the words in the world to say why we don’t want each other in reality and might crumble in tears before the mighty silences

Monday, June 15, 2009


The bliss ended years ago,
One fine day in March,
When beauty and brains,
Clashed with each other,
And you picked beauty.

What of a lovely mind?
I questioned you eagerly,
In my childish innocence,
I believed in every word,
Your lying tongue had said.

As the years went by,
Beauty reigned with brains,
Your heart was beaming again,
To make this love last, not,
To make excuses again.

This time, you schemed,
Taking days to work out,
The tiny details of your plan
That turned out to be
A castle in the air.

Beauty, brains, money,
What could make you happy?
Certainly not this broken life,
With you toiling everyday,
Far away from all loves.

For you have lost everything,
A soul of music now healed,
But I see life's bitter irony,
In your discarding all rules
To love what you'd mocked.

Sunday, June 14, 2009


You steal those silences with amazing dexterity. Earlier, these silences meant everything; now they foreshadow bitter moments that can break this heart into pieces.

You might say it's not so; but this heart knows its aches and joys, it knows not how to lie and maintain a straight face in pain. For years, this heart has tried to learn this elusive lesson of equanimity.

For it has always laughed with joy and cried with pain and knows not the stance of calm except when indifferent and aloof from the cares of everyday life; with prayer and penance and self-torture.

You have never known such days of life, when one could only write and escape this mad world of unbearable agony or pray to God to send an angel.

Friday, June 12, 2009

Less and More

You tease me as heartless,
I tease you as brainless.
This continual bantering lessen,
What was more in life before,
Aimlessness and hopelessness,
Many more sorts of -lessness.*
But this combo is more than being,
Heartless, lifeless and loveless,
As the bantering continues,
Day by day with more wit,
Energy, drive and spirit,
To find each other new epithets.
Still this world of less is more alive,
Than before the day I found you.

*Note to the Reader:

-lessness is the suffix used with certain nouns (such as life, hope, aim) to denote an absence of that noun.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

For my love on a nothing special day

Some days ago, I fell into a deep slumber,
From which I thought I would never rise again;
My limbs tied with some strange force,
My heart full of fears of the dark.

When I rose, terror flashed before me,
So did my love for you, my dearest,
What if you never know how I love you
More as days and weeks and months pass.

Memories of terror may flash again,
There is no restraining them,
Your love has been like an anchor,
A strong hold that I can depend on.

The words of anger may be a ruse,
For I know, you will be there always.

Tuesday, June 09, 2009

Some cause happiness wherever they go; others whenever they go, quote Oscar Wilde

Sometimes, I see that life works perfectly if only all the people that you associate with on a daily basis are in harmony with you. Work-life can be in shatters, if you have somebody who irritates you with persistent negativity. Not just me, a lot of people have this habit of blaming others and circumstances for not being focused enough. But how much is enough?

I was just a sit-at-home graduate in English who wanted to work from home for a hobby. I started doing some content writing projects and daily blogging. Nowadays, I am swamped with so many projects that I have forgotten the already rare visits to the beauty parlour, the occasional evening walk (the accumulating fat will tell the rest of the story) and unfinished household chores.

If you see no posts in a place, where there were regular posts (even though they were not great, but readable) please take remember that this idle singer of daily life in the form of writing has become a multi-tasker engaged in her struggles with Good English.

Sunday, June 07, 2009

Bad days

Who can save a day,
From turning bad,
From rotting, stinking,
Decaying and spreading,
Ill humour all around?

May you can- but how 's
That possible, with short
Tongue, short temper,
And short memory
That forgets its strength.

For who'd like to depend
On crutches and limp,
While solid limbs remain,
Unused, undervalued,
May be you do in ignorance.

For this long sad history,
With looming failures
Crushed dreams is not new,
But continuations of defeat
That began from day one.

So life moves naturally,
With no life, no dreams,
Like a log in the river,
Reaching where it will,
The ocean of forgetfulness.

Saturday, June 06, 2009


Meetings with no purpose,
Words with no meaning,
Promises unkept and broken,
Intentions no longer clear,
Everyday has such ruffles,
Brain-devouring carnivores,
Who stop not at tears or anger,
But only at killing the heart,
Till you learn the best way out,
To resist this energy drain,
Is to go back to your shell,
Keep respectful distance,
From all and not wielding power.
For who knows with all these rules,
You will die from plain exhaustion.

Friday, June 05, 2009


The thin bodies of models
Tease from advertisements;
While I try walking, running
Skipping, skipping meals,
Doing whatever I can,
To get slim and sleek.

But the chocolate cake beckons,
From the nook at Spencer's
So does Crackle and Five Star;
Not to mention the ice-creams,
Fruit salads and carrot halwa.

When I see these delights,
All ideas of dieting lost,
The dream of a thin body,
Purged of its extra roundness,
Lost amidst bites of sweet,

So I binge more on sweets,
Think of exercising tomorrow,
While days pass one by one,
The models tease from ads,
With their thin sleek bodies,
But they can't have such delights
The way I can live on sweets.

Thursday, June 04, 2009


The pale hairy hands stretch from a white coat,
A falsely made happy face enquires about you,
Was it yesterday that you had screamed aloud,
Asked for euthanasia and that you want to die,
While he looked worried and showed you
Pictures of shapes and spaces and flowers
Describe this: You told him of Carl Gustav Jung,
About Freud and what you have read,
Anima and Animus and the theories meant,
The male creative spirit in the female,
The female creative spirit in the male,
The pictures that Jung used to treat people.

The doctor ordered the nurses to sedate you,
Till you remember nothing of Jung or Freud.

Tuesday, June 02, 2009

The victim of a mousetrap

Monday, June 01, 2009

"An Introduction" by Kamala Das

I don’t know politics but I know the names
Of those in power, and can repeat them like
Days of week, or names of months, beginning with Nehru.
I am Indian, very brown, born in Malabar,
I speak three languages, write in
Two, dream in one.
Don’t write in English, they said, English is
Not your mother-tongue. Why not leave
Me alone, critics, friends, visiting cousins,
Every one of you? Why not let me speak in
Any language I like? The language I speak,
Becomes mine, its distortions, its queernesses
All mine, mine alone.
It is half English, half Indian, funny perhaps, but it is honest,
It is as human as I am human, don’t
You see? It voices my joys, my longings, my
Hopes, and it is useful to me as cawing
Is to crows or roaring to the lions, it
Is human speech, the speech of the mind that is
Here and not there, a mind that sees and hears and
Is aware. Not the deaf, blind speech
Of trees in storm or of monsoon clouds or of rain or the
Incoherent mutterings of the blazing
Funeral pyre. I was child, and later they
Told me I grew, for I became tall, my limbs
Swelled and one or two places sprouted hair.
When I asked for love, not knowing what else to ask
For, he drew a youth of sixteen into the
Bedroom and closed the door, He did not beat me
But my sad woman-body felt so beaten.
The weight of my breasts and womb crushed me.
I shrank Pitifully.
Then … I wore a shirt and my
Brother’s trousers, cut my hair short and ignored
My womanliness. Dress in sarees, be girl
Be wife, they said. Be embroiderer, be cook,
Be a quarreller with servants. Fit in. Oh,
Belong, cried the categorizers. Don’t sit
On walls or peep in through our lace-draped windows.
Be Amy, or be Kamala. Or, better
Still, be Madhavikutty. It is time to
Choose a name, a role. Don’t play pretending games.
Don’t play at schizophrenia or be a
Nympho. Don’t cry embarrassingly loud when
Jilted in love … I met a man, loved him. Call
Him not by any name, he is every man
Who wants. a woman, just as I am every
Woman who seeks love. In him . . . the hungry haste
Of rivers, in me . . . the oceans’ tireless
Waiting. Who are you, I ask each and everyone,
The answer is, it is I. Anywhere and,
Everywhere, I see the one who calls himself I
In this world, he is tightly packed like the
Sword in its sheath. It is I who drink lonely
Drinks at twelve, midnight, in hotels of strange towns,
It is I who laugh, it is I who make love
And then, feel shame, it is I who lie dying
With a rattle in my throat. I am sinner,
I am saint. I am the beloved and the
Betrayed. I have no joys that are not yours, no
Aches which are not yours. I too call myself I.

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