Rock, the star

A rock can be a mountain,

and mountain becomes a rock

when shadows

come ahead of you

and the fiesty Sun behind

grips you at the ankles

it consumes

your smallness

that tallness

then purges

the mountain

and you, the rock.

At that step,

do turn around

and leave

the shadows behind

just run up to the Sun

through sweat and singeing skin

does that change the facts?

For some.

As the shadow then

gets to tail you

and before it

nails you

at the next pile of rubble

you have left 

the mountain far

and you,

the rock

now, a hurtling shooting star.

*****

http://300stories.com/blog

Healthy Talk

What happened to the writer who fell short of words? Well, they just got written off. That's for the cursory fling with blank spaces. Do people ever fall short of words in their everyday communication? Barring an awkward situation or two, people generally like to babble. It's a communicable disease the world over, the only known antidote being a stifled yawn and a vacant expression in the listener's eyes. But the antidote actually works only on smart -talkers who keep a keen eye out for their listener's responses. For others, it is a flash-flood of thoughts that generally tends to sweep away the innocent and the unprepared. The very concept of gossip emerges from the urge to talk even when there's nothing to talk about. And willing, cooperative listeners make the activity organically productive.

As a child, I was quite a motor-mouth. Verbal diarrhea may just as well be a polite euphemism for my jowl-movement. The only complaint (I'd like to highlight 'only' but being the modest gabber that I am, won't do so) that my teachers ever had on PTM days was that I was a compulsive chatter-box. It was difficult to put a lid on my expression, with little or no reaction-time for my audience. I'd say audience because as a child, even a groan about the humble tiffin-box packed by a sleepy mother at 5:30 in the morning, holds the possibility of advanced physical theatre. I guess that's the reason why children hold us in rapt attention even when they are sleeping because there's language oozing out of closed eye-lids with rolling eyes beneath, snoring nostrils and twitching of fingers. Anyway, back to the point. Teachers, in our times, had the special ability of dousing a good spark if they saw one. One was encouraged to aspire more towards receiving stars on the personality chart for being quiet for twenty minutes, than for learning to talk one's way out of a sticky situation.  Parents, being parents, would never forget to remind me to cap it.

Initially, only in the house and later, when it became embarrassing for everyone to be around a girl who is verbose and uninhibited, at social gatherings too. Consequently, the eloquence found its way to the debating platform. I could argue and declaim without giving a sorry a** to anybody's reaction. Fortunately, that attitude worked wonders. Invariably, the winning trophy would be mine. Unfortunately, it was a disaster in the real world where the driving word for communication is 'diplomacy'. And then slowly, that slogan in the library unfurled its meaning to me. Silence is golden. Better still, silence keeps you alive and loved. Free thought and free speech belong to the land of books alone. Thus came new learning: 

Talk if you must, 

but only just, 

to please or appease

and certainly not,

to flare or combust.

And if silence means,

to hold your beans,

then let 'em rot,

but air your bags out first.

The gift of the gab often landed me among people who wanted to use my free speech to kick up a free storm. Politics beckoned where action need not match words and my words were pricelessly persuasive. However, it is ironical that a field where free speech is the goon, diplomacy of inaction is the king-of-the-ring. And never the twain shall meet.

Anyhow, the point is that, thanks to well-meaning teachers and parents, talking became more of an internal activity than a mode of communication with the world outside. And when that internal chatter becomes incessant, it becomes de-rigueur to write. The world called it upon itself. It's not my fault anymore. It may have been easier to hear and bear than be dead as you read.

Therefore, world, do not rejoice when you find me silent. Prepare, instead, for the print-sprint.

Parents, let that kid talk. If you can’t make sense of the non-stop questions, observations and remarks, then perhaps you’re the ones who need to air out those bags (lungs, incase, you didn’t understand earlier). And teachers, you’re paid to speak, aren’t you? Go eat your words. It's all healthy talk after all.

Cheers and burritos!

Missing Wordsworth. Again.

Someone asked me for an introduction. I just gawked. Really, for all it's worth, my poems speak of me the way I am. Or am not. Who knows. My poems know me best. Ask them.

No time to stop and stare,

in a forest sans all care,

Herding, ambling along

through creepers, vine and root,

and sound of marching boot,

no music and no song.

It’s crowded when I read,

which happens off and on;

and thus these books to me

are often a clarion

that blows away the cobwebs

of ego and illusion

and brings to light a tableau

born of kindred seclusion.

Baring such truths well-nested

(always were there to see)

My books and I stop here

under this whispering tree

where me, my pen, my longings

at play, yet adequately rested.

*****

Writing for 300stories.com

Dear friends,

I have been busy lately. Thankfully. Because it doesn't happen often. More routinely, busyness has to try hard and find me while I keep giving it the slip and a run. But it often descends on me when I've got my guards down, scavenging through a heap of books. That's when I get trapped and then, that busyness bug hums in my ears till a particular book draws out a yawn or two.

Anyway, I tend to digress most when I'm thoughtless. Ironical, isn't it? Therefore, I thought I'd give this idle thinking some direction. And so, apart from working on a few book ideas, I've started writing for a friend's library's blog. Not only would you find interesting reads on the website of 300stories but also book reviews to help you ogle with that reading-goggle. If you are an avid reader and would like to share your views about a book/short story/author, feel free to write in. I've got a book-review up there already. It's on The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah by Richard Bach. If you'd like to read, do visit: http://300stories.com/give-em-bach-book-review-of-illusions-the-adventures-of-a-reluctant-messiah

Go, try a book. Have fun.

See you, booker!

My Pink, Handcrafted Cupboard

In light of assaults on women in recent times, these few lines are an attempt to relate to the thoughts of a rape-survivor, who is trying to regain balance between the trauma and her life prior to the incident.

It rings loud

and hollow

in its shiny newness

my pink, hand-crafted cupboard,

as I begin

to put in

one after the other

vibrant drapes

to adorn my work and play.

Layer upon layer

the shelves and walls

absorb within

the clamour of loud, soulful hues.

It was then yesterday,

that I wore on me

an apprehensive thought

in rueful blue

and paisley yellow

as I ravaged through

the pile of clothes

from a brand new cupboard

and straight on to bed.

The void inside

started to grow

as the heap on the bed

bled to the floor.

The voice of contempt

rang loud and hollow,

like a void

hitting a void;

guttural sounds

running straight into

a larger empty space

on the shelves now

and the walls

empty with

an emptier nook within,

and hooks and hangers

to put

frightful memories on.

Was that yesterday?

Some time today…

…My hospital bed

and the white-washed sheet

is safe because

an unassuming apprehension

has been replaced

by a listless, sanitised calm.

But the soft caressing

of cotton sheets

can’t stop

my skin from pricking

at the recall of rough hands

like nettle on unsuspecting skin

over my mouth

breasts and thighs

engulfing the memory

of my father’s gentle fingers

and brother’s benign wrist.

The hollows

in my eyes

stare at the moment

that led me to that space,

in which,

robes undone

mindlessly lying

where they didn’t belong

unclaimed, unwanted

yet devoured and relished.

I’ll take them

To a tailor,

perhaps

or a seamstress, that’s better

to darn the gaping holes

or possibly

restitch together

a patterned, patch-work quilt

Would that help?

The nurse is not

a seamstress

She says she doesn’t know.

I wonder as I,

on this hospital bed,

relive

in every empty moment

thrusts

of ruthless, mocking laughter

my body, that cupboard

now a gargoyle

for refusing

newer waste

Then and now.

Be brave

I’m told

stay strong

the only way to be

Alive.

I am, always was

and yet, now

I do not know

how to live

despite the acerbic breathing

in a prickly world

of sympathetic stares

and inquisitive cares

that dress me

like mouldy, nettled fabric…

…I find all around…

barter after barter

trade after trade

bravery for safety

courage for peace

comfort for silence

blue for grey

red for white

And yellow for an abysmal nude.

It’s tomorrow now…

I’m home

and normalcy rules

in the corridor, lane, road

outside my house.

And in the loud

ringing hollows

of my cupboard,

I shall fold the colours

to tuck them away

in the deepest nook;

I am now learning

to refill the emptiness

and order the chaos

In my pink, hand-crafted cupboard.

*****