Riyaaz

She sang every afternoon. In the dry dusty heat of Delhi. She sang in a tan-colored room. Patterned curtains closed against the sun. Windows open in the hopes of a breeze. She sang to Bhairav and Bhairavi, she cuddled Yaman. She lingered over Khamaj and fancied the Bihaag. But most of all she sang to that shadow that stopped under her window. Every day at 3 PM. A figure right under her window that she could not see. That she spotted only as a shadow cast against the tarmac. That she noticed by chance when reaching for a sheet drying over the rails two weeks ago. That shadow appeared everyday. She would pause in the middle of her riyaaz and quietly tiptoe out to check and then tiptoe back. And resume singing. And when she stopped at 4PM the shadow would be gone. She did not wish to confront. But who can curb a young heart's fantasy? And soon her notes flew from her to that shadow - pure, golden notes carrying her youthful crush, resonant with hours of riyaaz. And now she sang of Krishna playing holi. She described the torment of unrequited love. She wove dreams into taranas. And all the while her heart bloomed. Her voice carrying a sweetness that no teacher could bequeath - that scorched her mother's heart. That scorned the hearts of dry dozing housewives. That burned into the minds of stern old men lounging in front of TVs. It burst through the sleep of slumbering toddlers and beckoned them with foreign urgency. It stirred passion in docile housemaids. It reminded the watchmen of their youthful dreams of glory.

And they all cried STOP! For the love of god STOP!


She was 19. Her name was ....Riyaaz.

Once upon a shower

As I showered today
In misty hot water
The sill of the window
Did cause me to totter
There lying quite still
In a tranquil heap
Was a tiny mosquito
In soundless sleep
I peered intently
So difficult to tell
Death from slumber
But I did it well
Why it is quite dead
Not asleep at all
I thought to myself
And made a wise call
I turned away softly
Letting it be
If thats what it wanted
What is it to me?

Tendrils

I stepped out of the rat race- into my house - to create a home. And ironically I detect a loss of my sanity within this peace. Without the experience of a struggle, the mind is fogged by peace, my heart is riddled with attachments. When I slow down to really view life, I realize how utterly beautiful she is. How gorgeous is every second spent alive.
So how do I love my children - and not fear death? How do I live with a loving husband - and not fear loss? What is this about life that every turn is full of conundrums? Little ironical twists that have me plunging my innards for rationality, equanimity, humor, courage. I am told to stand in the midst of this tempest- clothes billowing, hair streaming- but not blink!
A while ago I could have honestly say I did not fear death. That I did not dread my absence, I did not cringe at nights. Now I feel tendrils all around me curling, tightening, lulling my awareness, dulling my alertness. Fragrant tendrils of decieving sweetness.
Perhaps life is so full of care, because if you do stop and stare- the withering rose can break your heart.

Thinking idly.....

Was I tricked into life? By a charming cheating God?
Or was I bullied down by an enraged deity?
Or did I choose to arrive and someone waved fond farewell?
I wish I knew.
So I could move on with living.
Know its pointlessness or appreciate its significance.
All this mystery.
Do I own it or does it own me?
Perhaps it was conspired by the sky, so occassionally we stare up in wonder.
Or by the oceans, so we search their depths with keen eyes.
Or by babies, so we are full of wonder at their birth.
So in the end do we resign or get the pink slip?

Vedant-ism

Mommy! I only think in school! (in response to what are you thinking?)


That cloud is not happy (pointing to a black rain cloud)


No! My poo poo is inside my butt (when asked if he has had a poopy accident)

Pink sunrise

How wonderful, wonderfully peaceful are my days.
Brimming with contentment.
I am bursting to write.
Wax poetic, spurt effusive.
Alas! my words don't flow when my cup overflows.
I am smiling at this screen.
No torment to denote.
No conflict to resolve.
Just butterfly kisses and sunrise tickled pink.
How wonderful, wonderfully peaceful are my days.

Travel

I don't know where I am headed, but am sure as hell enjoying the ride

45 minutes

My Dear Friend

I spent 45 minutes with you today
Over the phone
We connected.
Our voices echoed
Entwining, recognizing
Laughing, empathizing
Just 45 minutes
To affirm my faith
Polish my viewpoints
To stop second-guessing
To stop spiralling with self-doubt.
Just 45 minutes on the phone with you
Is all it took.
How do you do it?
How do you say just the right things? In just the right words?
I don't need to know...
Just do what you do-
My dear, dear friend.

Its a small world

A little boy lived on the slopes of a rolling green hill.And all over were even more green hills. They swelled and dipped cheerfully all around his house.On sunny days white cotton clouds would saunter by the hills. The little boy would lie back on the thick green grass. The clouds made funny faces and made him laugh.
On stormy evenings, the wind would howl around his house and angry dark clouds would come knocking on the tight shut door. Rain would lash against the windows and pester its ways in.The little boy would stare out the window. The helpless clouds outside would make him laugh -and clutch tighter to his mother's hand.

Oblivion

The world is burning
Decapitated, truncated
Bloody, muddy, fearful
Shine down Lord
Shimmering rays of peace
Burst out from within
Our goodness, Narsimha
Through pillars of hate
I cradle my children
Shielding, praying
How long? For how long?
They tore me asunder
And fought out their way
For what? This hell?
I will not let go
You owe it, to me
Lull our hearts
Soothe our brows
Help us sleep
Gently, past the sun, the moon, the stars.....
Into deep, peaceful oblivion.

Cats

Yak! Yak! Yak! Yak!
Could I get some silent cats in this house instead?

A minute

Just a minute.
A minute of me.
Just me for myself.
Just me for myself
Kowing full well and strong
Just what I did right
And what I did wrong.

Its raining.....

Its raining disappointment.
Glass drops
Of liquid dreams
Slipping down windows
Dripping down roofs
Trickling down poles
Into dark dirty puddles
Left lying on the road.

Oh no........

Oh no! Just read Santa opened fire in an LA party. And killed 3. Kalyug is here! We are doomed!!!!! hmmm.....or naaah! its probably just LA.

I CAN see hope everywhere!!!! It REALLY MUST be Christmas:)

The weather outside is frightful......

I can't make up my mind about the weather today. Its raining, windy - the kind of day that makes you think (much more than) twice about stepping out. But then it also makes the blazing fireplace so much brighter, cozier. Imagine a bright sunny outlook - what price the blazing fire and the stockings above? Yes, yes- today I can see the good in everything. It MUST be Christmas.

Oh the weather outside is frightful,
But the fire is so delightful,
And since no pain no gain,
Let It Rain! Let It Rain! Let It Rain!

Sri and I...

...are working on two songs.

One is a difficult Dhrupad that keeps veering into a naughty Tarana.

The other is a sunny Beatles melody.

No idea no idea
There is none here
Oh my deeeaaaah!

Take....

Out.

You

You pause - mid-stride- beseechingly
I beckon unconvincingly

In response to closing lines from Big B

I closed without ceremony
Despairing pain and agony
They honored my humanity
I’m laughing at the irony