the day after slumber

it's almost been two years since i wrote that last post, and everytime i looked at this space, and read all that i had written, i thought i never would or could write again......and when some friends asked me why i never wrote again, i said i didnt know, there was nothing to write about, life was just one day piled on another, nothing interesting....not that life got any better now, but here i am, keying in, and well, the words seem to be coming, though reluctantly....for they have been quiet for a long time now.... maybe i will write oftner now.... i read about how blogging is losing its charm for an FB-toxicated world...but what do i care for this world anyway..... so i got my blog this new look, and am sitting here, keying in dear words with love...... i like the new template, and when i log in now, it's like coming into a newly shifted house, a new city.... it's new and nice, like how new cities are at first, also in the end, when you have to say your goodbyes.... i began writing this blog in delhi, i hated living there, but now i do miss the walks around delhi's melancholy streets..... chennai is nice, i dont hate living here, but there are days when i wish there was more space to walk around, there was a purana qila or a lodhi garden that transports you to another era...a quiet escapede..... also i long for delhi's bustling markets, shopping, my walks around CP and janpath...... my solitary evenings on the hostel terrace, sipping green tea, listening to music from the nearby gurudwara, watching the sunset, and sometimes pleasant conversations with a fellow hosteller.... guess we never leave any city completely, when you finally pack your bags, load your cartons with memories and books and coffee mugs, and with all the fretting, the bills to settle, the documents to fill in, however hard you try you forget something, you leave some things behind, a novel, a favourite top, a faded jeans, a piece of your heart...... and when you unpack in a new city, you unearth stuff you imagined you had lost, like love for the city that took you in anyway.....and then you go on living, and on evenings such as these, the memories just come back, and then there is nothing left to do than write......

ഇവിടെ, ഇപ്പോള്‍

ഈ ഭ്രാന്തിനു
തുരുമ്പിച്ച ചങ്ങലകളുടെ
മുഴക്കം പോലുമില്ല

on a rainy day, the memories are wet

in a room that smells of wet clothes, hung to dry on a yellow rope dotted with grime, and secured by clips, dead, if you have seen mothers who hold children who have gone to sleep forever, for the winds don't come in.... the windows are shut against the rain, rain that tickles down the wire mesh, a reminder, but there is none to answer the call.... the dampness spreads across the pale walls, and up from the ground, the curtains are wet too, the rusted old fan, turns and turns and turns, there is water falling, not lashing, not painful, only falling, a trickle of air.... secret letters of love, guilt, blotted by tears that roll down unwashed, unpowdered cheeks, salty letters in black ink that spreads on the paper, smeared now with secret guilt, hidden passions, honest scars which you can deny later when the wounds shall heal, the bandage shall go and leave no mark, but hidden too long and too quick, like doors shut on noise and light, maybe, only maybe and rarely, develop into pus, but for now it is wise to cover it up with a bandage..... like the lichen that grows beneath your clean white palm and the old wall now silent, so quiet, like the talkative grandmother who was dressed in white and wore those black rimmed glasses and there was an argument about which side to place her head that will not now be restless, will not argue, but the chin was up, and she was powdered again in cream sandalwood powder, the floor of the old house was wet that day and mother said it was from the nearby pond, that there was water beneath all this, so when she was buried, maybe she floated or swam away to some safe haven, she did not come back to tell her grandchild this last tale of adventure, i know the grandchild waited.... but weren't we talking about the lichen, that soft and green, its tender tentacles, a growth that spreads on memories that will soon be hidden, and under the softness you can still feel the hard red stone, firm still, but no outward traces.... like the reflections we left on our favourite waters, the stones we threw in must sure be there still, when now will we hold hands and go in looking for round white pebbles, boats made from grandfather's old newspapers and father's office documents, a wooden doll, a silver anklet, is it still there.... but our reflections are now different, or is it because the river has grown old....

മാറ്റം

മാറ്റം അനിവാര്യം ആണെന്ന് നീ പറയുന്നു
നിന്നിലെ മാറ്റങ്ങള്‍
കിടക്കവിരിയില്‍
ചുവപ്പ് ചിത്രങ്ങള്‍
വരകാരില്ലലോ ...

waiting

darling, you come to me

like fleas on the leper's wounds

how they refuse to go away

as he crawls grime-covered

arms outstretched

for money you won't give

precious pity aplenty

garnishing for your speeches

in a purple bottle i have stored

a dragon fly

it must be dead now

like the baby in a bell jar

in the biology lab at school

do you know

how haunted i was for days

and what a pretty baby it was

the smell of old photographs

yellow, the colour of memories

left to decay in old trunks

of my father's prodigal relatives

who cheated on their spouses

and flew away like birds

do they always return

will you?

നാണം

സ്നേഹത്തിനും,
ഇരുട്ടിനും,
വിശപ്പിനും,
നാണമില്ല.
സധാചാരബോധമില്ല.
കാപട്യമില്ല.

criminals

let there be music. and the trees ought to be green, the fields too. the skies a clear blue. and let the skies wear that look they often do before they pour forth their frustrations, not dark clouds and on the verge of depression, but in that mood of contemplation, when they are still clear blue, the facade so and yet will water down very soon. and let the winds blow. a light, gentle one, blowing my hair into my faces so you can tidy it for me, draw it to the behind of my ears and look into my eyes to see your pretty face. or let it be that i am looking into your eyes that hold the moon. the skies then a velvety blanket, with silver specks. and let there be lots of those silver specks, shining on for you and me. and then i shall look into your heart, without wearing these black-rimmed glasses, and i shall tell you what i feel.
in this room we have come to, climbing those steep flight of stairs, each step covered with dirt and disease, and the corners all reddened (no, not by the red we both love, but by wasted betel nuts), and both of us looking down and then glancing up to see where this patterned secrecy is leading us. to this room whose door creaks and the latch threatens our little secret, our crime. and on a bed, the linen of which is stained by the woes of men and women who came before us, all of them in a hurry to unburden a part of themselves, to prove this point but behind closed doors, priced at Rs 200 a night. i don't see the reflections in your eye, the quivering of your lips, but i have seen well the spiders scurrying in and around their cobwebs and lying in wait for their prey, i can see the dirty fan going round and round, with its monotonous croaking, and though it goes on and on it still cannot wipe the nervousness we are drenched in. i can see the plaster peeling off the walls, i can see the men and women who were here before us, fear and victory fleeting through their eyes and limbs, all of us doing all that has been done before, nothing new, and each of us thinking it were new, and so near to the meaning we seek in the busy streets down the closed window. i then see no skies, no waters, no greens. i only see parts of you, not whole, and a you so untrue to your self. i want to tell you to stop, to tell you this will come to nothing, that there is no meaning and pleasure this reeking bed and room will give us. but yet we go on, performing meaningless acts, hurting each other and then all tired we run down the flight of steps, me first and you following to impress upon the accountant, for whom we really care not, that we care not for each other. and then i wait at the turn of this narrow street while you settle the bill, and emerging like a criminal. no, i cannot here tell you. never can i tell you in this dry room of acrobats and their gimmicks what i feel. i will never be able to say, " keep this - my soul". and, even if i did, this monotonous fan will drown out my voice, just as it does our panting nervousness, our whining helplessness, this petty crime of ours.