Kelpo

There’s Mrs. Dadar heading toward me. It’s Game Time.

Oh! But …have we met before? I thought not!

Hi, I’m Kelpo. I live with Mrs. Dadar. She has three boys. I think she has a husband ..or is it a paying guest?…I can’t really tell.

I came here few months ago. Since then life has been…well… it’s not easy living with Mrs. Dadar. The days are bad. But the nights are worse. In this lonely kitchen….worn out…..with the day’s abuse splattered all over my body.

I live quietly for the most part.

I thank my mother for helping me understand this is the way my life was meant to be. Otherwise it would be unbearable.

I am still learning to deal with The Game- when she inserts unspeakables into my core. I don’t understand why she does it. Perhaps she just likes to watch me? At first I tried to hide my pain- I simmered silently, hoping to please her with my acquiescence. But maliciously she would turn up the heat on me even more. The whole point of the game, you see, is to see me twist and writhe and beg for relief. So its smarter to let go and scream for mercy- she gets what she wants and I get off the hook faster.

I choose relief over dignity, is that bad?

So here comes Mrs. Dadar. Its ok if you want to walk away now. It really is.

I will surrender. I will scream. As the pressure builds you will turn away I know. It’s ok. I’m built of steel.

Don’t worry.

It’s all in a day’s work for a pressure cooker.

A promise

How time flies. And we flit behind. Like children after butterflies.
What if we caught up with a moment and flew with it instead. What if instead of digging our feet into solid ground we rose...light as a feather and flew up to the blue sky. Perhaps even into inky black space where hours swim with lazy strokes.
Would our minds burst with new thoughts? Would our hearts melt with happiness?
It can't be that difficult. Can I do it tomorrow morning? Could I wake up and just set my mind free? Weave stories as I scrub the baby's bottle, string a poem as I scramble eggs, type a rhythm as I answer office mail.
Worth a try. Definitely worth it. So if you see me ride by on a delicious, rainbow-colored moment, don't stop me. Don't reach out. Just let me fly.
I will find out how time flies. And come back to you. Thats a promise.

Kuch to Ho

Behte palon ka kinara to ho
Yaadon ka hi, kuch sahara to ho
Jo socha ki ab yun miloge nahi
Bhulane ka koi bahanaa to ho

Kaha tha kisine hamein bhi kabhi
Ki laa denge chanda or taare sabhi
Ab andheri raaton mein bhatke hue
Ek nanhi si lau ka nazaara to ho
Yaadon ka hi, kuch sahara to ho

Nahi kahte hum ki badhao yeh baat
Nahi kehte tumse chalo saath saath
Bas ek baar humko pukaara to ho
Kabhi pyaar se sir sawaara to ho
Yaadon ka hi, kuch sahara to ho
Jo socha ki ab yun miloge nahi
Bhulane ka koi bahanaa to ho

Haunted.Hunted.Hurting

Cold water, Poison and Other Problematic Issues

Yesterday I finally faced my nemesis and failed with flying colors.

Everyone has a secret dread - something they don't want to think about; the headliner in the list of things that Should Never Happen. Of course, I have one too- and as a Hindu I am forced to face it. (I am in favor of converting - next birth of course. Can't do it in this one without considerable structural damage.)

And so it is that our water heater broke down.

There is admittedly a certain breed of people who revel in cold pellets raining down from merciless showerheads. I know this for sure because I am married to one. Every morning the man willingly sets the shower lever to 'C' and goes in smiling. I am not sure what happens next but it culminates in lusty singing. And then he jumps out a minute later- triumphant and a bit blue at the extremities.

Similar spectacularly puzzling behavior is also exhibited by birthing women who refuse epidurals, athletes who run 10 miles every morning and cooks who spend hours chopping fresh green beans.

I completely do NOT belong to this species of mammals. My genetic code demands a different ritual.

Appropriate showering etiquette is to run hot water until doors and mirrors get fogged over. In this sauna-like environment the bather should take a leisurely shower- humming soft notes and blowing wispy bubbles. When you finally step out, the skin should be a pretty pink (also known as the ‘boiled lobster’ look if you happen to like those). A handy thermometer should indicate a body temperature of at least 101. One caution: do keep a glass of water ready in case you get dizzy. An added advantage: Bathers have been known to lose a pound or two on good days.

So with the water heater gone kaput, I avoided showering for two days. Finally I knew I had to take the plunge when my three-year old noticed a stink. You know its serious when a three-year old boy notices something stinks.

The next morning I bided my time till the sun shone hot and high in Arizona. Then I turned on the shower. My skin broke out in allergic reaction. I swayed weakly and took a steadying swig of Benadryl. A faint ringing besieged my ears and I distinctly remember putting a toe into the water. To be honest the next few minutes are garbled and somewhat non-existent in my memory. The next clear recall I have is of standing in front of my vanity with a bottle of Poison in my hand. For a moment I panicked then realized it was the perfume. Things had not reached breaking point yet. I doused myself liberally with this genius creation, slicked my hair back and applied an extra layer of make-up.

As I said, I faced my nemesis and failed with flying colors.

And in case you are wondering, yes there is a happy ending. The water heater is being replaced even as I type. I have requested an hour off from office this afternoon to inaugurate it. I hope to land myself in hot water soon.

Kites or Stones?

How we all hang
From these tender threads
Some bound by them
Some hanging at the ends
Some twirling in the breeze
Some solidly entwined
Just waiting for that snip
To cut through the bind
The question then is
Not why we hang around
But when snipped from the thread
Do we fly or dash aground?

Confounding

A yellow labrador named Blue

Pride

Watching my son run strong and free across the vast green expanse. Remembering he could hardly wobble across the room two years ago.

Adi-ism

This is our garbage truck (re: our shiny new Honda Odyssey)

Treat

Firemen playing soccer on golden afternoon....yummmm:)

Bursting

Can I burst? Burst into tears? Burst with love? Burst out of exhaustion? Burst out with anger? Burst away my frustration?

As the dial spins and the hands rotate I just play catch up. How easy for you to watch in contempt. How simple for you to turn away with dislike.

How many months have etched themselves under my eyes? How many tears are dampening my brow? How many fingers are tugging at my skirts? How many bones have I built through my flesh and blood? How many cheeks are rosy because of my plump hips? How many hands are growing because I swelled to hold them?

So easy for you to look in contempt. So simple for you to turn away in dislike.

How convenient to hold forth on things that could be.

The end is a must. The end is given. The purpose-obtruse. The means -a mystery. The time- a hope.

Did I?

Did I see?
Did I?
See a rhyme with a tear?
A word with deep despair?
Have you found me again?
My darkness, my pain?

Ruminating

Walls and spears.

Thats all there is.

Walls built with deaf bricks. Mute bricks. Uncaring. Sterile. Unable to melt. They can only crack. Or dislodge. And then fall on me. A quick blow and I am left to tend the wound.

Spears built long and sharpened to perfection. Loping across walls. Finding their mark. A quick stab and I am left bleeding. Leaning against my wall. Drawing strength from those hard red blocks. Frozen in anger.

I tried. I try. We all try. And yet-- all we come away with are walls and spears. And we run in circles..like the planets orbiting the sun. We orbit our blinding stupidities, our amazing ignorance, our astounding conciets. And we trip on the same stones, the same cracks, the same dry gravel. Yet we run...round and round with our walls and spears.

But for what?

How long can you last without a kind word? A caring glance? A loving embrace? How long can you stand in front of the mirror staring at your open wounds? How long can you bleed and still keep breathing? How long do you want to run? Till the energy of your soul is sucked away from you? Till word by word, breath by breath, blow by blow--you are nothing. Just fine, ground salt mixing into sand. A shadow of who you were. A memory of what you were going to be.

Its over.

All over.

And yet you are running....

With your walls and spears.

Redemption

Here I am. Redeeming myself. This is penitence for being 'absent' during peak rush hour at home. This is payment for being 'busy' at work all day. This is my fine for attending gym for an hour. Thats what it boils down to. Unspoken guilt. Unvoiced pressures. Implicit expectations. Spilling out of my kitchen's shelves, tumbling out of cupboards. Cannot be repressed. And only I hear them. Only I see them. I carefully gather them and place them back gently and shut the door firmly.

The strength of a liberated woman lies not in the act of independance, but in the forebearance of the consequences.

Reviewing my day, I am surprised I am still standing -- up at 5AM, worked non-stop till 4 PM, work out 4:30- 5:30 PM, shopping for formal clothes: til 7PM, cooking/serving dinner till 8PM, putting both kids to bed, running/folding 4 loads of laundry and now office work again.

And still...I am guilty. Judged. Condemned. What can I say? The blessing-- its not by Sri. The curse-- its mostly by me.

Two Blind Mice

Once upon a time, two mice were caught in a cage with a piece of cheesecake. Giddy with delight, they danced holding hands, sang songs, told tales of great laughter and smiled even when they slept. And so many days passed.

Then one morning, they woke up and stared at the cheesecake in confusion. So many days, so many nights, so many nibbles, so many bites—they could not believe it was still in sight.

That day they fought all day. They found plenty of cause -there wasn’t enough space in that cage, the cheesecake left crumbs all over, the smell of it was overpowering, it was going to give them a tummy ache—and so on and on they went till night fell.

Then they supped on a piece of cheesecake, bid each other goodnight and fell into sound sleep.
The next morning, one mouse woke up and decided the cheesecake was as good as ever and requested the other mouse for affirmation. The other mouse could not bear this broach of privacy and freedom and promptly vowed to hate it forever. Both threw themselves at the door and bemoaned their fate when it did not budge. And so they fought all that day and well into the night.

They stopped only to sup on a small piece of the cake and then fell into sound sleep.

The mice awoke with a start. The cage was full of sunlight. The sky was blue. The floor was freshly swept. The door lay open. The cheesecake was gone.

The mice rushed about in horror. Grief-stricken they ranted at each other. Furious and helpless they panicked all day.

At night they huddled together and could not sleep a wink…

And that,my friend,is marriage

Adi-sms

-Omachi is playing drums too loud (re:thunder)

-Look Amma! My pee pee is having a party in the pot (re:bubbles in the pot)

-Amma look...my toes are dancing (re: wiggling toes)

-Cars live on roads.

-Appa's not gone to Kalifurnia. Pinni ate him.

-I told me. (re: in response to who told you that?)

-The light has gone to sleep. (re: night time)

Blake's miracle

I saw the picture of a child today who died of leukemia. His name was Blake. He was 18 months old. The picture showed him poised at the edge of a small diving board—plump arms curved protectively. Feet angled inward in uncertain balance. Looking anxiously at the camera. Perhaps he was scared to take the jump. Such a little boy faced with such a mammoth task.

I suppose I should have asked the usual questions—Is life fair? Why him? What’s the point? Instead I could only think of the moment when he must have drawn his last breath. How do you watch an 18 month old draw his last breath? I hope I never find out. I could only think of his mom going from a ‘have’ to a ‘had’. How do you watch your child die in your arms? I hope I never ever find out. My mind could not stir beyond this point. I felt shafts of pain slice through me. Not once but over and over.

I want to draw some deep philosophical understanding of life and present it here with a grand flourish. Perhaps write an ode to man’s suffering? Perhaps a sonnet on a mother’s love? Perhaps even an essay on the inevitability of death. But all I can think of is that moment when the child died. That one second of transition. Where did Blake go?

Blake’s parents have poured their grief into a mammoth charity effort. They are selling T-shirts, holding marathons, conducting donation drives, selling raffle tickets….. They call it Blake’s miracle. People are applauding their spirit. Their courage... I only wonder how long will they keep it up? When will the fervor die down? When will the fury of their grief abate? Each new charity effort sounds like a helpless cry of sorrow to me. I pray they find peace. I await the day when finally there will be no more fliers announcing Blake’s miracle.

Letter From Chandler

Today the heat index touched 115. But I don’t think we noticed. After 110 it’s all the same. I was tempted to drop an egg on the sidewalk. Instead I let down all the blinds at 6AM and kept them there till the sun finally burned itself out at 7:35 PM. This was pretty much my day today, in Chandler.

This town has been my home for the past 5 years. Every scorching summer I swear it’s going to be my last and every winter I again fall in love with it’s pretty sunshine.

Chandler is located twenty minutes south of Phoenix. The remarkable thing about Chandler is that it’s totally unremarkable. It’s just a peaceful labyrinth of unhurried, perpendicular streets. Days gently roll over into weeks, which slowly turn over into months. Most things are located within 1 mile radius of my house: the grocery story, the hair salon, the gym, the dentist, the family doctor, the tae kwon do studio, the Chinese take-out, even the post-office. It’s almost a relief to drive 2 miles for my annual eye check-up.

In summer, we rely mostly on wildfires and ill-fated bar-be-cues for entertainment. Occasionally a stir is created by an unusually large piece of produce sighted at the local farmer’s market. Sometimes a friendly black widow in the garage or a baby scorpion on the patio can add a personal thrill to the day. But mostly we hibernate into dark, AC-clad homes. We minimize driving because by the time the car cools, we are already at our destination. We never leave children, pets or plants out in the backyard. We never dress below our knees and I cannot remember the last time I wore full sleeves. This poses a moral dilemma for traditional Indian ‘aunties’ in Chandler.

Indians in Chandler belong to three distinct communities: Intel-ites, Motorola-ites, Honeywell-ites. Lately a few Amex-ites have been spotted as well. And of course within these communities exist other sub-communities such as: Tamilians, Punjabis, Bengalis. And then there are the crossbreed types such as the Intel-ite Tamilian who is married to the Motorala-ite Punjabi both of whom are members of the Indo-American society. The mind boggles. I prefer to spend time with the Hispanic gardener, making frantic hand gestures to communicate.

This is not to say that Chandler does not have its fair share of blond, blue-eyed, white skinned all-Americans. There are plenty and they generally treat us (Asians/brown skins) with polite but bewildered respect. For most locals, Chandler has been the only home they know or the second home at the most. The latter take great pains to describe their adventurous, risk-fraught move from Mesa to Chandler. Just FYI, Mesa is the town next to Chandler, 4 miles from my house. We therefore represent an enigma to these people. To cross seven seas and leave behind all we know and love – what could possibly be worth it? Sometimes I wonder if instead of mocking their frog-in-the- well attitude, I should learn something from them…should I return to India?

But I digress now. I told you about the summer in Chandler. Now I want to tell you about the wonderful winters. After a few weeks of thunderous, blazing thunderstorms and a few squalls of rain (when the local TV induces mild hysteria by issuing flood warnings), the weather begins to cool. Crisp, clean breezes replace stolid, oppressive layers of heat. The sky becomes a pool of sparkling blue. Pure gold sunbeams drench everything in yellow warmth. Slowly, ACs wind down. Patio doors are pushed open, backyards become crowded with children, streets are dotted with young mothers pushing strollers and birds flock to grains scattered by kind old hands. Chandler comes alive. We gleefully switch on the news every evening just to see the rest of the country freezing under mounds of snow. We stand vindicated. Every weekend is a pocketful of treats: long walks, sunny hikes, cozy picnics, biking adventures.

And yet….yet that’s not really why I love Chandler. This is the town where I came as a new bride. Where my sons were born. Where my husband comes home early every evening – fresh because he has no long commute to battle. This town has treated us well. It gives us space to look up to open skies. Its offers us quiet restful nights to regain our sanity. Sometimes it pours time into our hands as if to say: spend time with each other, because life is fleeting, much like my winter sunshine.

Hmm…..Some day I will return to my big city roots. But for now, I am just waiting for the first splash of winter--here in Chandler.

The Mending ( A short story)

The problem with phones in not that they ring. But that they ring again after you hang up. Deb cursed under his breath. Sudeepta focused on parting her hair. The air was thick with ignored expectations.

“Na!” Sudeepta’s sharp command startled the lizard on the wall. Deb lowered his hand from the phone. Sudeepta drew a rich red line in her parting. A quick pranaam and she was ready to leave. Just before exiting, she cast a meaningful glare at Deb. Then the door shut and it was Deb by himself.

‘Deb by himself’ would have answered the phone. He had no bones to pick with his parents. They were a mildly annoying but irrefutable fact of life. But Deb with Sudeepta was a beast of a different nature. Within three months of marriage, as his wife washed off the alta from her pretty feet, untied keys knotted at the end of her sari and walked out of his parents’ house, Deb had decided his best interests lay in quietly following suit.

Now Baba was sick. At seventy, he was a senile mess. Maa faithfully blew the conch shell every evening, beseeching her Thakur’s mercy. She could not bear the burden of an ailing husband nor fathom the cruelty of an estranged son.

Deb felt restless. Pulling on his customary white kurta and brown trousers, he thrust his feet into an old pair of slippers and let himself out. It had been only two weeks since they moved into this new neighborhood and there were plenty of chores demanding his attention.

He walked fast. He would have walked faster but for his slipper that gave way with a moody snap. Deb stopped mid-stride. Now what? With habitual impatience he shook his foot free. Better to get rid of this old nuisance and get a new one. Fortunately he knew of a shoe shop very close by. He would have to walk barefoot, but not too far. Deb headed for the ditch across the road to throw away the useless slipper.

“Kyaa kar rahe ho baba? Hum abhi mare nahi.” (What are you doing son? I am not dead yet).

Deb was startled to find an old man standing by his side. Where had he come from? Did he know him? He racked his brains but no memory answered.

“Humein nahi pehechana shaayad. Hum yahan ke mochi hain.” (You did not recognize me perhaps. I am the neighborhood cobbler.)

“Lao yeh chappal humein de do.” (Come. Give me this slipper)

And before Deb could say yea, nay or hey, the old man had seized the slipper and scurried back to the dusty sidewalk where a mat was spread under the ponderous peepal tree.

There was no way to refuse without making a fuss. Deb did not fancy having an argument hopping on one leg. He trailed behind and sat down on an old aluminum trunk.

The old man studied the leather slipper minutely. He turned it over and over. He peered at it at eye level, then flexed it, then stretched the torn ligament and let it go with a snap. Deb could have sworn at one point he even talked to it under his breath.

Bored by the mochi’s antics, Deb leaned against the tree trunk. His thoughts drifted idly over the day’s work and inevitably to the ignored phone call. It was unlike Maa to call back a second time. Was there really some emergency? Heck at that age, every day was an emergency. How much longer were they going to be around?

“Boodhi ho gayee hai par abhi jaan hai” (She is old, but still has life left in her).

Deb jerked up straight. Had the mochi divined his thoughts?

But the old man was still absorbed by the silly slipper. He looked up with a delighted grin, displaying stained, broken teeth.

“Abhi jaan hai baba. Hum isko abhi theek kar dete hain” (It still has life son. Let me fix it right away). Even as Deb wondered at the man’s excitement, the mochi took out some rusty tools and ran on with his monologue. “Ab bacha lo to bhagwaan samjho. Phekne ka kaam to koi bhi kar sakta hai” (If you are able to preserve something, that’s close to God. Anyone can perform the act of destruction). “Bechari ne bade saal aapke saath guzara hai. Thodi si sewa karni padi to phek denge kyaa.” (This one has spent so many years serving you. Now when its time to tend to her a bit, will you throw her away).

Unbidden there came into Deb’s mind the day he had left his parent’s house. His mother had stood by the door quietly. Baba had helped them load their car with the same taciturn silence. For the first time Deb wondered: what did they do after we left? Who shut off the lights in the stairwell after they went to bed that night? Neither of his parents could walk up the stairs in the dark. And they had never installed another switch at the top because there was always going to be Deb.

Unsettled, Deb opened his mouth but the mochi was waiting for no one.

“Ab socho to ek din yeh bhi nai thi. Bade maje main isko pehena hoga. Bahut acchi lagti hogi na? Aur kitni jageh tumko leg gayee hogi. Purani dost hai baba.” (Now if you think of it, one day even she was brand new. You must have donned her with great pleasure. Must have looked really good. And she must have taken you to so many new places! She is an old friend son).

All at once Deb remembered the time when his mother had come with him to school because the seventh grade teacher had slapped Deb without reason. She had swept into his classroom looking almost regal with her black hair caught up in a jeweled bun. With scant regard to the giggling students or school protocols she had rebuked the poor teacher soundly. Deb still remembered the look of awe on his friends’ faces. No one messed with Mrs. Chatterjee’s son.

Deb’s mind became a whirlwind. Countless memories sprang alive: the bustle in the kitchen everyday at dawn since the school where she taught (for 13 years) required Maa to come in by 6:30 AM. The terrible day when Baba taught him his first trigonometry lesson. His parents clapping proudly at his first (and only) guitar recital in high school. His father consoling him when he did not pass the Civil exams. His mother adding that extra spoon of sugar is his evening tea that made it just perfect.

He even recalled the day his father retired as the head teller in the local bank. His father had come home early and Maa had prepared a special celebratory dinner. Deb cringed remembering his harsh refusal to dine with them despite repeated requests.

And then, finally, his marriage to Sudeepta. His parents had chosen her for him. A ‘beautiful Bengali girl’ they had called her. What did they think of her now? Did they ever look regretfully at the photo of the other girl they had rejected because she was ‘too dark’?

“Haan matlab nayee cheez zaroori hai. Par pair kaat thi hai babu. Isliye purani ko bhi paas rehene do….thoda araam miega.” ( I know that new things are also necessary. But new (slippers) are bound to bruise your feet. So let the old ones stay on. Use them to ease your feet).

“He could say that again!” Deb thought wryly. While he adored Sudeepta, his sometimes felt life could be more pleasant if she could be just a tad more laidback. She was a perfectionist and a staunch feminist. The result, Deb had to do his share of housework and do it right i.e. her way. And there was not much she let him get away with either. Just two days ago their water heater broke down. It meant nothing to Sudeepta who loved cold-water showers but to Deb it was a catastrophe. Hurrying to get dressed for his job interview, he had requested her to heat some water for him on the stove so he could at least bathe in lukewarm water. The response had been a curt “I am not Maa. Grow up.”

“Hum zyaada bol rahein hain kyaa?” Deb’s attention was caught by the change in the mochi’s voice.

Even as Deb tried to find words to explain the impression the old man was making on him, the mochi gave him a shy smile and said “Darasal hum itna bolte nahin hai. Par humare bete ne kal hamein bahut daanta. Keheta hai babuji, aajkal koi chappal theek karaane nahi jaata hai. Tumko thoda aur dum laga ke graahak ko bulana hoga. Kuch baat karo, graahak ko samjhaao purani chappal theek ho sakti hai.. thabhi tum kuch kamayee karoge. Bas hum wohi koshish kar rahe the. Warna humein kyaa hai babuji ki hum tumhe itni baatein sunaaye Lo ye theek ho gayee. Kaam ho gaya.” (Actually I don’t always talk so much. But yesterday my son scolded me a lot. He said no one is interested in getting their shoes mended nowadays. So I need to be more aggressive in soliciting clients. I should talk to them, entertain them. Convince them about the value of mending old shoes. Only then I will be able to earn some better money. So that’s all I was trying to do. Otherwise why would I rattle on lecturing you so. oh! Look the slipper is ready. You are all set.”)

Deb could only stare dumbfounded. So this had all been a sales pitch? This old man was good!! What a spiel he had spun! Deb did not know whether to thank him or wring his old neck. Then the humor of it struck him and he burst out laughing. He assured the old man he had enjoyed their chat, paid him generously and left chuckling to himself.

A few steps down the street Deb’s pace slowed down. He checked his watch and looked pensive. With sudden resolve he spun around and headed back home. There was just time enough to make a call to his parents before Sudeepta came home for lunch.


THE (M)END

My Faded Note

A note I found with flower press
Tucked inside my faded dress.

This wrinkled,crumpled, paper pink
With curves of blue in Chelpark ink.

Do gently lay it back to rest
I have no more such silly zest
My sari pleats with sultry sway
I'm all grown up an' wise they say.

Untitled Poem on Iraq

A cross by the street that is bleeding all day
A moon that is dulled by smokes of dismay
The lotus is dead in a still pond of grief
Murder, murder, fanatic belief.

Home with no dad, he lies at work dead
Life without ma, she wouldn’t drape head
Hungry he searches vain through the nights
His brimming eyes aided by flickering streetlights.

The end of the world is perhaps not yet near
But much of it drowned in his fallen tear.

The Work Out

THE WORK OUT


Biting back tears Ashwini turned to the cook-top and attacked her rotis. For a minute the expectant dining table and the toy-strewn floor disappeared as she imagined the dollop of dough to be Rajan’s head, which she deftly flattened with her rolling pin. She watched, fascinated, as the dough ballooned into a perfect circle—much like Rajan’s face, she noted. Then with a final smack Ashwini threw it onto the heated pan and let it brown in agony.

“Am I going to get one or is it all for Ash?” Rajan’s nasal sarcasm. Her tears overflowed. To a casual listener it was just a pet name but the nickname fell on the floor, gasping under the weight of their dead romance. Once Rajan had called her ‘Ash’ in molten whispers, proudly claiming she was the ‘real thing’ and the one on the screen was a mere namesake. Such was the beauty of his slender wife. Then Naina was born and the nickname turned into an acid spray, thrown at her face each time Rajan felt cheated. Her softly plump body and her milk-swelled breasts were not part of the nuptial promises exchanged in the heat of that night three years ago.

“I don’t understand what’s wrong with you.” Rajan resumed his nagging monologue as Ashwini served dinner. “ Look at Aruna! She looks just the same as she was the day she got married! Why is it so difficult? Sach! I am more worried about your health than anything else.”

Ashwini sought refuge in her roti again, this time to hide her scorn. But she kept her silence. Three hard years in an alien country had helped tame her impetuous temper. There was nowhere to go, no one to turn to. The cold banks of snow outside stood stern guardians to her lonely life. She often tried to remember the madness that had made her drop her art career in Pune and move to Princeton to be with Rajan. Nowadays she could not think that far back.

“Hmmm….Aruna does look good doesn’t she?” Something in Rajan’s tone made her look up sharply. The urge to snap back and confront became unbearable. She opened the tap and let cold water run over her burning fingertips.

“Kailash is a lucky lucky man.” The wistful regret finally seared through Ashwini.

“ACCCHA! Aruna looks really good haan ??!!?? You know why? She has a maid who comes in thrice a week to clean her house. She has a personal trainer who gives her two-hour sessions twice a week! For God’s sake she has a nanny to watch her kid while she is doing all this… OF COURSE she looks good. Maybe if you brought in as much as Kailash, I WOULD LOOK AS GOOD AS ARUNA!!!! And just for my information, how good does Aruna look? Care to tell me what’s going on? Hey bhagwaan, I am sick of this life, sick of you, sick of this country…you are driving me CRAZY. You don’t like who I am? Then why stay married to me. Go marry Aruna. I’m DONE.” The flight and crash of a startled bowl punctuated her fury. Then a deafening silence seeped into the room, slowing down everything—even the seconds ticking away on the microwave’s dial.

A small whimper from the corner reminded her of the innocent witness. Ashwini threw down her apron and ran over to the baby cowering in the playpen. Cooing softly she picked up Naina and exited the room.

************************************************************************

Rajan was stunned. What just happened? He sat frozen at the dinner table time, a half-eaten morsel sticking persistently to his fingers.

As the shock subsided, he was even more incredulous at his reaction. Was he actually feeling happy? Yes! That was a smile on his face. Even though he was taken aback by the force of her outlash, yet he felt a curious satisfaction in having finally provoked her out of silence. That annoying wall of calm had finally crashed. And it was delightful to think she was actually jealous…Ashwini jealous!!?!! The ice maiden of all times had melted and how! He got up chuckling, hugely buoyed by the thought.

***********************************************************************

The doorknob clicked softly behind her. “Here goes,” she thought. If backs could speak, Ashwini’s back was a piteous mixture of apprehension, defiance and vulnerability. For a minute Rajan was tempted to put his arms around her and make passionate love. Then his eyes fell on the small brown arm circling her waist, resting on the gentle bulge apparent under her shirt and the desire fled. Yet, in a moment where he would have normally reacted brutally, he was benevolent, mellowed by his triumph. He laid a hand on her shoulder and turned her around and was further gratified to see the relieved surprise in her eyes.
Keeping his voice low so as not to wake the baby he asked “What do you want Ashwini? Do you need some free time? A workout? Let me help you. Tell me what you need. Lets make this work. You know you can do it. I am here for you. Just tell me anything you need.”
Ashwini could only stare dumbly at her husband. What was this? What was this new ploy? She grappled with the unexpected and was hopelessly defeated. She continued to stare mutely at Rajan.
Irritation flared in Rajan’s face as he mistook her surprise was habitual silence. Desperate that she was going to shut him out again, anxious to see he still held power over her, hoping he was finally going to motivate her to some action, he tumbled into speech – hurried, tender and made promises he regretted when sanity returned.
But the upshot of it was that it was decided (mostly by Rajan) that Ashwini would get a membership at the local gym and work out three evenings. And for that, Rajan would forgo his evening with ‘the boys’ and instead be home with Naina. In fact, he even went so far as to venture he could consider cooking dinner.
Head spinning, Ashwini felt a warm glow spread over her. Perhaps he did genuinely care for her. Perhaps she was wrong to feel his love was conditional. Perhaps she should apologize for her outburst.
She turned to him and but was stopped in her tracks as Rajan continued “ Ah! Yes, no problem. I just want my Ash back. You don’t know how tough this past year has been. Your pregnancy and the birth and all that jhamela. But it will be ok now. God! I can’t wait to see the look on Kailash’s face when he sees you. You know what, one kid is enough! I don’t think I could deal with another…Hum Do Humara Ek …eh????” And winking lewdly at her, chuckling at his wit, Rajan went back to finish his dinner.

Ashwini smiled sadly. So nothing had changed. In a way this was simpler, easier. But now she had to go the gym and train like a prized poodle. Lying down on the bed next to Naina, she wondered how to get out of it. Drowsily she turned over plans. By the time her stomach rumbled a plea for dinner, she was deep in exhausted sleep.

************************************************************************

“Bye sweetheart,” Ashwini sent a kiss flying straight to Naina and closed the door behind her. Too late she realized she had not said anything to Rajan. She hesitated but then turned and hurried down the stairs, half afraid of what she would find if she went back.

It was a beautiful Monday evening. Crisp air, watery sunshine fading slowly. Princeton was fresh, cold, beautiful. Striding along in her red jacket Ashwini felt more vibrant, alive. Old-fashioned street lamps were flickering on as darkness descended. Students spilled out of libraries and coffee shops and prepared to go home. She stopped to look into the wide, dimly lit window of an Italian restaurant. Watching diners forming graceful tableaus, their silver glittering against white table cloths, candle light teasing rosy glows into smiling cheeks. For the first time in a long time, Ashwini longed for her paint brush.

Sighing she headed on and finally found herself face to face with a tall brick building. Could this be the correct address? But something was wrong. There was a crowd around the front door and fire alarms were jangling. Someone informed her a fire drill was going on. Damn 9/11 he said and disappeared.

Ashwini waited patiently. With languid interest she observed as more people filed onto the street. Another woman in tight pink leotards informed her that the class would still be held, but would be delayed by an hour. Ashwini thanked her and looked around wondering what she could do meanwhile. Her eyes were drawn to a small bar under the level of the pavement. One could only make out half arcs for heads as people swirled around, underground. Something in the secrecy of the place appealed to Ashiwni. She decided to go in.

************************************************************************
“…And what would you like to drink this evening?” the waiter asked with amazing cheerfulness. Ashwini looked down confusedly at the menu in her hands and then felt irritated by her awkwardness. “A glass of the house red, please” she said, smoothly closing the book shut and giving it over to the waiting hand. “Oh and can I get a glass of water?” “Sure!” the young student prepared to move.
“Oh can I get some lemon in my water? If its not too much bother…..”
“Anything for a pretty lady like you,” the student disappeared into a mulling cloud of waiters, leaving behind a bemused Ashwini. Could it be possible he was actually flirting with her? The thought amused her and was more than a little appealing.

The next time he brought out her wine, she took an extra hard look at him, blushing when he caught her eye with a mocking smile. He was not a student she decided. The crow feet around his eyes belied his youthful looks. He is almost my age, she realized and then blushed again, even more violently, as he winked at her from across the room.

She sat for an hour in a quiet corner of the room, softening under the warmth of her wine and the smiling waiter. She did not speak a word, never once looked around the room. She was cocooned inside a crystal glass served with a mischievous look. There was some enchantment in that bar that she was not willing to analyze. As the clock chimed eight she steeled her senses again and knew it was time to leave. She looked around for her waiter but he was nowhere to be seen. Another waiter answered her wave and got her the check.
She opened the check-book and a grin spread through her face. A brochure of Princeton lay tucked into the black leather. Two words were scrawled against its face “For Tomorrow.” That was it. Nothing more, nothing less. Yet it set every nerve in Ashiwni’s body tingling with anticipation. Whether it was an invitation or a directive, the brochure promised adventure. It tempted her to make friends with this foreign land. It reminded her she had made no attempt to explore her new home.
Paying by cash, she left behind no tip. Instead she wrote ‘thank you’ on a white scrap of napkin and tucked it where the brochure had been.

************************************************************************

Rajan watched in satisfaction as Ashwini sashayed around the kitchen making rotis. She was humming lightly under her breath and even laughed out loud once at a wise crack from Jay Leno.
“Its all in the endorphins you know” he called after her as she went over to the fridge to get out the yoghurt.
“Huh?” Ashwini looked up confused.
“Its all the endorphins released by the exercise. Look at you. You look almost pretty. I am so glad you had your work out.”
Ashwini nodded docilely and reconciled her expression into obedient delight. She crossed over to him and planted a kiss on his cheek “Yes, I am glad I worked it out too. Thank you.” She went back to the cooking range. Rajan settled into a contented meal.
*********************************************************************
He was bound to figure it out some day. Soon he would realize she was not working out.
OR, she thought smiling devilishly as she added a huge dollop of ghee to his daal, or perhaps by then he could very well have something he would need to work out himself!

Silence

Words let loose, suspended crowd
A fog of words, clamoring loud
Jostling, jiving, inching pace
Pressing, pushing at my face.

Bind them tight and overboard
Spear them with a silent sword
Muffle them in soundless sign
Bury them in wordless line.

Silence, Silence, silver, light
Silence worn in gentle white
Silence lying on my skin
Silence...Silence....sigh....

Sri

It’s quite simple really. I am in love. In love with a man named Sri.

Perhaps I fell in love when he forgot my birthday and looked devastated at the realization. Or perhaps it was when he e-mailed me nonsensical rhymes in the middle of the night. Or was it the first time he surprised me with a home-cooked dinner of rassam and rice and sang ‘wish you were here’ completely off-key, on his guitar.
I cannot seem to be rid of him now. He has grown into me -- till I am unsure where I end and where he begins. I love him for not flinching at the sight of me rolling out of bed early in the morning hair standing on end, eyes puffy with sleep. I love the gentle drumming of his fingers on my ankles as I rest my feet on his lap watching TV. I love the look of delight in his eyes when I make him a cup of filter coffee. And what woman can withstand a man who voluntary fetches her a glass of cold water in the middle of a hot summer night?
And then I love him some more, because I respect him. I respect him for his integrity and his honesty. I respect him for the love and loyalty with which he cares for his parents. I respect him utterly for never disrespecting me, no matter how great the intimacy between us.
So I married him. He is my husband. I love him now just the teeniest bit extra just for that… for being my husband. Of course with kids underfoot I hardly get to spend much time with him. But we still hold hands when we go to sleep, over our slumbering children- and I love him then so deeply, for completing that circle of love.

The Quest

Dear Reader

For some time now I have been in search of a mysterious Observer. Time and again this discerning reporter has noted ordinary happenings of everyday life and relayed them with such inspired words that we will remember them for years. I am also much intrigued buy the fact that he has preserved his anonymity with remarkable humility.

Yet, his actions also beg some level of condemnation. Many a times was he not a passive participant when acts of atrocity were being committed? Was it not his duty to interfere when justice, life, liberty were at stake? This then raises the question, did this reporter remain anonymous simply to protect himself? Or even worse, could he have been involved in the perpetration of these crimes?

Perhaps my dear reader is now losing interest and wondering if the writer of this piece is talking through the proverbial hat. Let me then develop my case by using concrete examples.

I start with the case of The Three Blind Mice. Not many would find time to observe the hapless lives of this handicapped minority, let alone spend precious time describing their overtures to a farmer's wife. However, once things turned macabre with the unwilling wife brandishing a knife, should not this observer have intervened? At least a quick call to the farmer should have been made. Who knows what evil was wraught on the farmer once his aroused wife was done with the mice?

Similarly, this reporter displayed abominable behavior in the case of Bo Peep and the Lost Sheep. Once again, while not many reporters would have the courage to relay news on such non-political matters, what kind of an insensitive brute would tell Bo Peep to 'leave them alone' and that 'they would come home.' As a reader I was always left wondering what happened to Bo Peep? Why were these false assurances being fed to her?


And then of course there was the supreme tragedy of the atheist. When Goosey Gander was dragging him down the stairs, he must have looked expectantly at this reporter, hoping for a miraculous rescue. But we know the Goose wandered unhindered-- his extraordinary strength even escaped comment (steroids??). And so many questions left unanswered! Why the left leg? Why was the old man refusing to say his prayers? And what was he doing in a lady's chamber? I fear there has been cover-up of a sex scandal or a communal conflict.

And so I can go on. Citing case after case. The unfortunate duo going up the hill, the cat in the well (what was so ding-dong about it anyway?), the monkey brothers caught jumping on the bed etc. etc.

I hope I have provoked some thought in you by now. Preserve this missive. In case anything ever happens to me, do ensure it reaches appropriate authorities.

Time to stop lazing on this wall and spring into action

Humpty Dumpty

Invitation

I'm sorry I missed you
Dear guest oh so gay!
I was working you see
I was building all day


Do come by again
Dear guest oh so kind!
I'm done now with building
A better frame of mind.

Just 'Cause

I'm forgetting
I know
I know it's true
'Cause I sit here
Spent
Spent forgetting you.


I need you
No more
No, more I must be
‘Cause it never was
You
You were no more than me


Believe me
You will
You will it be true
‘Cause you need me
No more
No more to love you.

A Child's Sunrise

Good Morning, Good morning, Mr. Sun
I was asleep but now I'm done
You left the shore at six half past
So glad to see your shining mast
Wonder while I closed my eyes
What has come and passed me by?
Did my baby bird take flight?
That bug become a winged delight?
Ah! Look! A spider web
Must keep it safe from water’s ebb
It makes me laugh this windowsill
That lazy lizard lying still
Ready? Spying glass in hand
To look through every bit of sand
I have to gather splendid news
For a friendly poet’s muse.

Dinner is served...

Swollen air, full of thoughts
Zealous heat, boiling pot
Unkempt spices sigh and swoon
Fevered pan, sweating spoon
Wanton tiles, lying bare
Sticky touch, wounded pear
Served tonight, on white pristine
Dinner cooked with stifled dreams.

The Perfect Afternoon

Sunbeams dapple thru
Silken jade
Caught in pools of
Luminous shade
Filigree prints
That shift and sway
With brazen wind
In sensuous play
Cradled within
This magical nook
I dreamily read
A poetry book.

I spy you...Death

Unexpected voice
In a restful night
Faint on my ears
Almost unrecognized
Heralding news of the final breath
Drawn gasping upon a lonely tile
Shoulders sagging
Under a lifetime of guilt
Fingers unclenched
Letting go of all holds
Perhaps it was apt
That he should be naked

The smoking pyre
Blunting my memories
Blurring them
With soot-filled pain
The fire like warm rain
Soaking my face
I sit waiting
Waiting for him to rise
Waiting for this scene to end
Can we go to the next act please?

I spy you Death
Hiding under chairs
Lurking behind doors
Marring every inch
Of my peaceful home
You have hammered my heart
Chiseled my brain
Till I am sculpted proof
Of your unforgiving workmanship
I know once we are pulled
Into your embrace
We cannot step back
Cannot break free
Opiate in your stifling caress
We let go
Of all we were
Of all we could have become
We turn to stone
Silent statues in your home
Smiling photos in ours.

A mother's confession

There is no joy comparable to the pleasure of watching your children reach out to each other.

The past 5 months I have watched my two-year old grow from being the pampered baby of the house to a responsible anna who authoratatively tells me to feed the baby on time. It amazes me how much this little child learned in such a short time! How quickly he let go of his jealousy -- how easily it transformed into unconditional acceptance and affection. How large is his heart I wonder. If there is one thing I pray for fervently its that he retains this capacity to give -- or that I should not be alive to see him lose it. It would be more than I could bear.

And my younger one? He has eyes for no one other than his anna. He starts cooing and drools bubbles the minute anna comes from school. I have so often watched this baby smiling adoringly, just quietly watching as the older one chatters non-stop. And then, the most beautiful moment-- that rare second when the two calm down enough to connect. Anna gently holds up a toy for the baby to grab and the two laugh aloud in some secret joke.

In that moment I know they will be ok. When I am gone and I cannot watch over them, they will be there for each other. Each my half watching over the other half.

Where did they learn they are brothers? Did my womb teach them something even while I slept through the nights? The umblical cord that we threw away was an illusion. Its still there. Between these two. Holding them together, holding them safe. Advait and Vedant- brothers- my sons.

Good Morning Iraq

A miracle could happen
At the stroke of midnight
Just like it did
For my land
Guns could turn ito
Merry young flutes
With the touch of
A magic hand.

A miraculous dawn for Iraq
Will have come
A miraculous dawn at last!

Soldiers will smile
As they start their fire
At enemy lines
So worn.
Each volley of shots
Throwing music to winds
Waltzing away
In the morn.


A miraculous dawn for Iraq
Will have come
A miraculous dawn at last!

Oh can it not happen?
Is it just a dream?
Can no one bring peace
To that soil?
Perhaps if God signs
A pact with Allah
And dries up
All the oil.

A miraculous dawn for Iraq
Will have come
A miraculous dawn at last!

Hybrid

A weeping willow wed
A happy wisteria
And burst forth with blooms
Of purple hysteria.

Breaking News

Sudden cloudburst
Floods
Letter from home.

News

The stock market
Crumbling
On my breakfast table

Nostalgia

Diving head over heels
Into a pool of reflections

My family

Sri
A bowl full of promise
Waiting for me
In the spacious dawn of my kitchen sink

Yamu
An elusive reply
To my unspoken question

Advait
My breath caught by hands
Stirring liquid pots of mischief

Vedant
My smile in the morning
My sigh at mid-night

Mom
A perpendicular red
In a page full of horizontals

Personally Defined

Peace:
A naughty dollop
Of double chocolate dare
Peacefully melting
In my hot mouth.


Respite:
A moment of quiet
So I can think a full thought
Without you spilling milk all over it.


Planning:
Lets plan to talk
When we can hear each other.


Sin:
An afternoon hidden
Laden with two hours of stolen sleep.

Love:
Your small brown button mouth
Caked with forgotten yoghurt
Waiting for a kiss.


Holding Pattern:
A pattern on my handekerchief
I trace again and again
With my eyes.


Salad
A handful of definitions
Tossed and served with a slice of life.

I think --NOT

I think therefore
I am, So
I really am not
All there
The grey cells
Flew off long ago
Along with all
My hair.

Reminder

I must clean my fridge today.
It still has
Your beer pack
And a frozen stack
Of old desires
Thawing...
Slow....
In agony.

Advait: A short play (on my sanity)

Dedicated to anyone driving two-year olds home from school.

-------------------------------------------------------------
"Amma….."
"Yes?"
"Whats that?"
"Whats what beta?"
"That"
"Whats that beta?"
"I don no Amma."
Silence.
"Amma!"
"What?"
"Umbrella."
"Where? Oh that’s not an umbrella. It’s a palm tree."
"WHY?"
He's deep.
"Becaaaaausseee….it is …a palm tree."
"I’m not kicking you Amma."
I’ve got to admit. It’s a good counter move.
Me: "Yes. That’s true."
"NOOOOOOOO don’t SAY that."
Me (little shocked): "Why?"
"Becaaaaause doon yell at me."
"I am not yelling at you."
"WHY?"
"BECAUSE I AM NOT."
Pause
Advait: "Are you happy?"
"No"
"Are you happy?"
"No"
"Are you happy?"
"YES"
"Why?"
I am about to explode. Perhaps he senses that?
"Say cheese Amma."
"What?"
"I take pictures. Look heeere. Say cheese."
"I can’t. I’m driving."
"WHY?"
"Becausssee….."
He’s heard it before. He cuts me short:"DRIVE PRAAAPERLY."
I'm spluttering incoherently. Thankfully home is near. I relax. Too soon.
"Amma….."
"Hmmmm...?"
"Poopy coming."
The rest is a separate story all by itself.

Thank you

Thank you chairs
And you table for two
You bring to life
My hopes anew

I touch you
And its good to see
At least you can
Be moved by me.

Untidy Quest

I 'm searching high
I 'm searcing low
To find a quest
For this rigmarole

I see a comma
A full stop, a hyphen
I even spot errrors
But no noted questions

Do you believe me
When I tell you this time
I did have a question
I hid in a rhyme?

Now I can't find it
I'm trying my best
I 'll find it and send it
When you ask for it next.

Once upon a chance....

Once upon a yellow noon
In hot hot burning summer bright
I chanced upon a lazing moon
Wrapped inside a tuft of white.
Welcome memory! Warm delight!
So sudden in this lonely night.

Naked Writer

Trembling hands
Writing slow
Burning cheeks
Crimson glow
Strip the skin
All nerves show
Done at last
Take a bow.

Little Savior

Milky breath
Gentle snores
Open hand
Peaceful toes
Rest knowing he is here
Yours alone, your brother's care.

Pointless

Who filled the eyes
Of my helpless mite
With gritty sand
Unblinking fright
He can't close them to
Sleep at night.

oh!leave my son to sleep in peace
Soon life will tear him piece by piece.

Amma

A trusting call
Expectant hush
The pleading
Of my two-year son

Guard that door
Fight all night
Lions, monsters,trolls of fright

Breasts swollen
Leaking love
I stand guard
Tireless love.

Interrim....

There are very few in this world who can clang open the serenity of your bedroom, flash an unrepentant smile and disappear in that blurred second of chaos. My sister is one of them. Clearly she is.

The Beginning....

So, here I am. On the brink of suburban anonymity. Two kids, one husband and a minivan. Probably the dog is what would push me over. And you really cannot expect to leave your print on the world if you have sunk down way below it already. But don’t mistake me. The suburban world is not a dead one. It is a teeming, heaving underworld of groceries, carpools, alarm clocks, and dishwashers. It’s the strong breath of life that curls up and carries those select few to fame.

I was to be on this air-borne express. I was bound for the stratosphere where I would shine down with fierce genius. So what happened? I probably became too heavy. Contentment can add some serious weight. The warm languor of motherhood can also cause considerable inertia. Throw in that minivan with the DVD feature that keeps the kids happy, and you have sunk almost rock bottom.

But this morning the scales said I was lighter. Something stirs. Suddenly there is a struggle. My hand and head are not submerged. My heart is still beating. I can still write, I can still think, I can still feel. And maybe—make my mark?

So, here I am at the beginning. When I close my eyes so many tales dance in front of me. Like colorful snakes waiting to come alive. Which one shall I bring to life first? I know. Lets start with my beginning. My mother.