Grown Up

The initial euphoria

Lasted all of

4 weeks, 6 days

And 12 minutes.

It lasted

Through my unpacking

And my dusting

And my arranging

.

It was great!
I could cook up gourmet storms,

Clean to a fault,

Decorate with colours unheard of

Shop indulgently,

(Drink even more so)

Trawl the web

Stay in bed

Have Sitcom marathons

 Laugh at jokes –

All in the solitude

Of my Adulthood.

It lasted

Till I took a breath.

And then it wasn’t the same

Any more

Home was

Waking up to the smell of breakfast.

Clothes that smell like Surf Exel.

Having to fight for the remote.

Never finding the clothes you wanted

Because your sister had them.

Having a gaggle of uninvited people

Drop in for chai-biscuit.

Not having to worry

about what to make for dinner

or whether there was enough pasta for two.

Heat and humidity and afternoon naps.

Always having something to do Friday evenings.

Home was

The smell of my mother’s hug –

 Soap, spices and Davidoff.

The sound of my sister’s guffaw

Echoing off the walls.

This?

This isn’t home,

This is my adulthood.

Seasons

A blush blooms,

Alongside the first

spring romance.

The radiance of a hot love,

Like a summer.

Tears fall -

Autumn leaves,

Monsoon rains.

The winds of crumbling dreams

blow bitter -

A harsh winter

Words

I could, if I wanted, write you a song,

full of words that inspired love,

 in Delilah, Anne and Cecilia,

and millions across the world.

If could, if I wanted, write you a story,

full of romance and clichés

and put the epics that star

Romeo, Majnu and Jack to shame.

I could, if I tried, paint you something,

fill it with all the colours

that make up our love.

I could, if I tried a little harder,

sing you a song,

stealing words and emotion

from Clapton, Rafi, Lennon.

I could, if I tried really hard

tell you exactly how I feel

about you

but it would test my patience

and not convey very much.

So I’ll tell you instead,

that the way you make me feel inside…

it feels like…

hot chocolate on a rainy day

my favourite quilt

watching bubbles float in the sunshine

wind in my hair, sand under my toes

and waves at my feet

yellowing books with dog-ears

the smell of baking

candy-colour tongues

and roller-coaster rides.

You make me feel

like me.

I have a Dream

I have a dream;

to wake up someday

in a cottage far away,

tucked into a corner of a mountainside

surrounded by trees,

valleys and peaks.

To listen to the strains

of red breasted robins

singing harmony to

Tchaikovsky’s Spring Interlude.

To sit in a chair,

sipping tea

as white clouds

drift and swirl

forming a tendrilly cap

keeping my wispy thoughts

safe.

I have a dream;

to wake up someday

in a shack on a beach

and feel my hearbeat

echo the crash

of waves on the shore.

To listen,

as the wind blows a raga

that would send

Chaurasia into raptures.

To watch,

as sunbeams

paint a Warhol -esque

masterpiece on the water.

And inhale the scent

of salt and the sea

that settles in my soul.

But for now

I have to be content,

with waking up

to the smell

of spent fuel,

roadside garbage

AC air

 and dreams.

And strain

to hear my thoughts

or my heart

over the sound of the phone,

the traffic and

downstairs aunty’s TV.

And leave half-drunk tea

to form brown rings

inside my cup.

and watch as the plants

on the window sill,

fade slowly,

like my dreams.

Frission

Creases fill with warmth,

and promise.

Limp dampness

takes on new form

guided by

heat.

Steam billows into the air

in slow motion puffs,

doing a dance

for those who are watching.

Silently I smile

as I begin to feel

perfection,

and a little moan

escapes

as the warmth embraces me too.

The pleasures

of freshly ironed clothes

on a rainy day.

Cross Purposes

Her eyes open in bewildered wonder.

Her light eyes and fair skin

wouldn’t be out of place

in any gossip tabloid about town.

She watches as I sit

Nervously smoothing my kurta –

“Hand dyed in organic colour,

Wash in cold water only”.

I smile as she stares,

twisting the ends of her dupatta

dyed by the sun, winds and the rain. 

She listens intently, her head tilted,

mouth in a twist, eyebrows meeting,

trying to make sense of the words

as I tell her this and that

in my urban effort

to “make a difference”.  

I came to tell her

that she should be in school,

filling her head

with facts and analyses

and sing-song times tables.

She smiles in response,

hoists the crying baby  in the corner

onto her hip,

and wipes it’s runny nose

with a mother’s love. 

She smiles a slow knowing smile –

one that tells stories of things

that I cannot understand.

I realise she’s smiling at me,

and I suddenly feel a weariness

 beyond my years.

I stop talking,

and my words trail off.

She begins to talk

of family and

finding a place

in this world.

And I’m caught,

an orange lizard

in the green shrubbery.

And I slowly return,

to my world –

of hand dyed kurtas and easy truths

while she stays

with the sun, wind and the rains.

Mango Showers

The warm wind blows,

ripe with warm sticky memories

of childhood summers -

scraped knees, marbles and kites

 and elbows dripping golden yellow

mango juice.

I lie sprawled –

half on–half off

the couch,

feeling a lazy caress

as the air sluggishly drifts

from corner of the room to another.

The Hindu flutters briefly,

the pages fighting a losing battle

against the humidity.

And then it too lies limp

letting the heat wash over it.

On the front page,

a bespectacled man smiles and waves

sporting a coffee cup halo

Dry leaves rustle on the concrete outside,

the crunch competing with the sound

of the tender coconut vender -

“Fresh and Tender”

“Full of Juice”

he claims.

“Beat the heat”

he promises in a fit of sales talk fancy.

His voice is soon drowned out,

by the man who pushes

a blue hand cart

piled with baby mangoes

waiting to be sold by the kilo

and pickled

by many a household

in anticipation of

a time without mangoes

With a jerk, the fan stumbles to a halt,

filling the room with a sultry silence,

and making no difference to the breeze

who does as she pleases,

and keeps her own hours.

The outside cacophony

competes with

the silence inside,

as I escape this heat

to the summers of my past – 

where the winds were never this warm

and the mangoes were always juicier.

Rainbow

We wove together the threads of our life,
We did,
And made a rainbow coloured tapestry
Of our lives.

We wove violet velvet
For the royal way you treated me,
And for fairytales,
And other dreams
We had.
We splashed in some indigo,
For all the industry
In our lives,
Blood, sweat and tears,
That we mixed together.

I pulled in some silken strands of
Summer sky
Blue
For the way you make me feel -
Calm and sheltered,
And like our love,
Extended as far
As the vast sky.
And for the way
I made you feel rooted
You found some green threads
As well.

Yellow and orange pieces of cotton, for
The days we lay cuddled
In our own warmth –
Too content to move,
Smouldering with muted love
And finally,
Thick ribbons of red,
For passions – ardour, anger.
That defined us

But then I looked again,
And saw us for what
We are -
Weavers of an illusion.
A rainbow coloured illusion.

29C Sagas

The green-with-white-stripe
rattletrap buses,
have been replaced.
By the white, and yellow, and orange
buses that come and go,
or better still,
the hiss of the pneumatic
AC buses.

The conductor’s hands,
occupied with coloured stubs
of tickets and
a jangling change purse,
now holds
a black box, that spits
impersonal white vouchers
for exact change tendered.

Gone, are the navy blue rexine seats,
that, on a hot summer’s day,
made you think of swimming
and ice golas.
The hand painted signboards
in yellow and white,
announcing if it would stop for you,
are things of the past as well;
ushering little moving dots
of neon orange lettering-
via, Adyar, Mylapore, Gemini.

But then the old lady from Mylapore gets in
and without losing a beat
of the sloka she’s chanting,
takes a seat near
the wizened lady, with the gold nose stud
and the black tattoos
smelling of fish from the beach.
And in the back rows,
a flower seller, continues to weave
flowers – dreams, hopes, love –
in a thread - for sale
to those who care to look.
And the two men discuss,
their boss and his nasty love
for horrible meetings.

Two young men get in,
With their low waisted jeans
And their gelled hair,
Laughing and discussing
The latest football games,
Drawing looks from the
Middle aged man,
In his pinstriped pants and tucked in shirt
Who had watched them too.
And the college girls sit together
Giggling, and jingling their bangles,
And fixing their hair,
Not caring if anyone sees
But hoping all the while that someone does
Much to the amused stare of the lady
With the vermillion in her forehead
Who’s already made two calls
To “chellam” –
“There’s thayirsaadam in the fridge”
she’d said.

And the conductors voice
“Adyar Signal yerrengu”
Adds to the symphony of
the traffic and the horn
the chatter,
Someone’s radio,
93.5 “Suryan FM”
“Keep listening”
And the smell
Of the fish and flowers
And sweat and tears
And temples and
Fancy deodorant
Unite.

And then, as
someone hands you two coins and a note
and asks for a ticket
that familiar feeling hits you,
as you jostle for space
and make your journeys;
you know
that despite the odds -
Nothing has changed.