Reading Meghadutam

 

May be it was the shape of his beloved's favourite beast

Bent down to butt a riverbed that inspired him to poesy.

May be it was the memory of his lover's sandalwood body

Or the grief of separation from her that made him sing so.

Whatever the reason might have been for him to compose,

He thought of her long hair without adornments or flowers

Drawn together in a single sweep in the long absent months,

He sang this musical erotic message promising rejuvenation.

He thought of her beauty that made him err in his daily duties,

The early hours of the morning when he spent hours with her,

Which he didn't want to forsake and plucked the holy lotuses,

Which he plucked before time to get punished for a long year.

When the rain bursts on her, he wants her to remember him,

Who in the eight months of absence longed to be with her!

Beannacht: A Blessing for the New Year

For Josie

On the day when

The weight deadens

On your shoulders

And you stumble,

May the clay dance

To balance you.

And when your eyes

Freeze behind

The grey window

And the ghost of loss

Gets in to you,

May a flock of colours,

Indigo, red, green,

And azure blue,

Come to awaken in you

A meadow of delight.

When the canvas frays

In the currach of thought

And a stain of ocean

Blackens beneath you,

May there come across the waters

A path of yellow moonlight

To bring you safely home.

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,

May the clarity of light be yours,

May the fluency of the ocean be yours,

May the protection of the ancestors be yours.

And so may a slow

Wind work these words

Of love around you,

An invisible cloak

To mind your life.

[Note: "Beannacht" is the Gaelic word for "blessing." A "currach" is a large boat used on the west coast of Ireland.]

rebus writing

I really miss the days when people texted more than Yes, No, ok, and what? and abbreviations and short forms than send meaningful long sentences, properly capitalised, spelt and spaced meaningfully. May be you might think that I am a purist but this craving exists to get a well written letter or a handwritten page. 

I remember there were friends who could match wit with wit, anger with anger and repartee with repartee, all in matter of seconds and you could roll in laughter at the words they said. You look with nostalgia at the SMSes that could make your day. 

I really miss those texts in words, invites, reminders, emails and missing you messages not the rebus that you read these days. I think 

want2cu2moro is good enough but I think might like a longer text that goes: I missed you a lot today, my dear and want to see you tomorrow. Please stand near the tabeubia tree where we usually meet. 

I love your meaningful silences and how you read me without using words. But, I want to hear what you think, that too unedited and free.I want to read messages that are honest and unedited showing exactly what you think and about what you want. 

Most of the time, I want to have candid chats with you, ones that stay with me all the time and ones that could keep me warm throughout the wintry days. 

words

There were words that leaped out of neatly bound library books and offered solace in the dark nights of the soul. With wonder, you remembered these miraculous tomes set by a writer whose heart was full of infinite longing and pure love. 

For years, my dream has been to write with the same magical touch that offers solace to the reader. I never knew this dream till you peeked at my midnight dreams that summer. Awake from sleep, I wanted to tell you what I felt for you especially when you were away from me and how my heart beat when you were with me. 

Though you were not mine to own, I started becoming possessive about you. You need to smile at me, talk to me only or enjoy spending time with me, I argued. In the realm of words, I starred writing the songs of silence about what you mean to me. 

This heart wants not to please the mob; only to sing about what it remembers the most of a long-lost love. These songs have no art; they speak of the loss in not having you beside me. They have neither rhyme nor rhythm but only a wild beat of words that are quaint to the ear, yet in their own way, unique and creative. 

Words come, with its thousand limbs, entangled meanings and nuances, like a sudden burst of rain that creates ripples in still water, while the great green forest holds watch over with its mighty silent wombs of understanding, from that moment when you appeared in my midnight dreams for the first time. 

Rebus Writing

 I really miss the days when people texted more than Yes, No, ok, and what? and abbreviations and short forms than send meaningful long sentences, properly capitalised, spelt and spaced meaningfully. May be you might think that I am a purist but this craving exists to get a well written letter or a handwritten page.

I remember there were friends who could match wit with wit, anger with anger and repartee with repartee, all in matter of seconds and you could roll in laughter at the words they said. You look with nostalgia at the SMSes that could make  your day.

I really miss those texts in words, invites, reminders, emails and missing you messages not the rebus that you read these days. I think want2cu2moro is good enough but I think might like a longer text that goes: I missed you a lot today, my dear and want to see you tomorrow. Please stand near the tabeubia tree where we usually meet. 

Daily

It has always been my dream to wander the world with you- go places, find beauty in nature and in simple things and live life to the fullest. What I have always wanted is to wake up early and watch the streaks of dawn across the sky and then snuggle you to wakefulness. 

The other dream has been to visit my native place near the River Green and watch the snakeboats glide in the river during Onam. Once in a while, to get soaked in its waters like in a lost childhood near the River. Also, to go a graveyard with my people in it to see the graves that have lost their names in renovation and forgetfulness. 

May be to find love once again in life, the beauty lost with time and the lost art of smiling many times daily like an innocent child does. May be to wear a spot of sindhoor on my forehead like a newly wed woman with pride in her acquired happiness.  

Rain Raga

Beneath the banyan tree, a woman sat singing some ragas. She was singing in her melodious voice some songs that invited the monsoons.  The land was dried up and the sky devoid of any trace of rain and the people draped in cottons gathered around with the sun scorching their brown skins.

The ragas reverberated in the blazing summers and were offered to the gods of the sky and the wind and the people remembered all the occasions when the land was blessed with rain in the scorching summer season. The children from the village played by the dried up temple pond, thinking of the days where they splashed in the cool water, sat idly in the cool recesses of the rocks, or sat chattering with the juice of ripe mangoes oozing on their hands and faces.

The singer went on singing and the people listened to the songs that praised the advent of the rains: oh you rain; much awaited the boon of heavens that brings joy to the earth, solace to the people, oh you rain, come with thunder and lightning and soak our brown skins with delight. Oh rain, the fulfilment of forecasts and incessant prayers, I invoke you in the names of the barren earth, the dried up rivers and lakes, the animals and birds, the silent trees and the people on earth.

The rains were invoked to end the blazing afternoons of summer heat with the first drops of summer rain and you set the warm smell of earth rising and you bedeck trees with jewels like brides, from furnace hot afternoons to nights of restless pace. It is for the rains, incense is burnt and prayers chanted and it is for you, the comforter on hot summer days. The land and the people waited for the comfort offered by the summer rains. However, the singer went on crooning the rain songs and soon and suddenly a wind blew over the land. The trees began to sway with the gust of wind and grey clouds rose to silhouette the sky with hints of a sudden outburst.

Then it started raining heavily. With the advent of the rain clouds, the entire city rejoiced as the wait was over. The days of drought are finally over and the soft rain pelted over the crowd with bolts of thunder and lightning. The people received in open hands stretched to skies what the heavens granted as comfort from the scorching heat of Indian summer. The rain fell over the land and the people danced in the rain with the beaming children screaming with delight when the droplets of rain drenched their brown bodies. The singer sat drenched still humming the megh malhar raga.

 

The Unsent Letters

Purple Riot

The purple riot began

And took root slowly.

Who would've thought
Who would've known

In the rear view mirror
It looks like spring again

It's snowing every morn
And melting by evening.

The beauty that returned
The songs that don't cease

One day sitting nearby
Feeling the full purple riot

The deep desire in your eyes
That sang to me whole night

The hand that almost reached
The purple riot in your heart.