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.

a piece of sky

(Wrote this for a college assignment. But this has remained very dear to the heart. And hence...)

Indifferent wheels that screech past the road; concrete colossals that crane their necks to make their mark in the firmament above; hoardings of motley colours that scream for attention; men, women and children who trot the happy, puddle-laden, slushy street……these are things anyone would notice. But not the old, dilapidated house that seemed to have ungrudgingly absorbed all the grime of the metropolis onto itself and stood there still like a stubborn old hag refusing to give up. With its moss-laden boundary walls, tiled roof, flaked interiors, broken pillars and cracked flooring, it stood there, an anachronism, as against the grand confusion of a city striving to earn that-something it had long forgotten in the chaos of progress, expanding roads and concrete sprouts.
The heavy iron gate, rusted beyond repair, whined as if to protest when pushed open. There were unkempt bougainvillea trees on either side, a melancholic pink and in full bloom, that had spread to an unweildly canopy, like the hair of the witch in the fairy tale book, so much so that it almost shut the sun out completely. But you notice the shrivelled bark, the termites happily eating away memories from the wood, and you realise this may probably be the last time spring will kiss the optimistic trees.
Climbing dust-laden steps, one reaches the grimy black porch on which muddy shoes had left their imprint, unconsciously leaving the only outward traces of human habitation there. And then one enters the one-time ‘living’ room. On one side are wooden cupboards with glass panes , full of books – from classics and old dictionaries to the latest bestsellers and magazines. And on the other is a long wooden table and a couple of wooden chairs around it. And at the table is the man of the house, reading the day’s newspaper. All that one sees of him is the held up newspaper and wisps of smoke rising from behind it.
The dimly lit corridor with rooms on either side leads to the smoky kitchen with its dark walls covered with soot. And along the corridor one notices the clandestine flight of stairs which leads to rooms upstairs. The wooden planks creaked rhythmically when trodden upon. Many a time a young rebellious teenager would have romped these stairs, in anguish, mostly in rage. And even as you climb up the stairs, you can still hear the clutter of vessels in the kitchen downstairs.
Atop is a large room, full of books, which leads to another room. Books, newspapers, magazines, clothes, accessories, pens, paintbrushes and loose sheets of paper lay strewn all around the room – on the floor, table, chairs and bed. Near the table is a window that opens out onto the noisy street. And through the dusty bars of the window, one sees the firmament. Not vast stretches of it, but only a rectangular piece. A piece of sky. Beyond the framework of that window, the sky is not yours anymore. The owners are many; they are unknown.
It is strange how distance cannot diminish real warmth and fondness. And the finest details push their way through the veils of memory. I close my eyes. This is home. Warm as ever.

observation

painted nails

have red-painted mouths

that spit

sugar-coated words

punctuated by

"oh my" and

squealing "really"

and uh-uh and tch-tch

painted nails

grow on waxed fingers

that hold delicate phones

and travel on coquettish heels

and discuss 26/11 and darfur

and malnourishment in some african forest

while red lips sip cappuccino

and candy mouths nibble on pizzas

red painted nails

are fastest growing species

their mother

the same vending machine

you pop in a gold penny

and you get a fine face

and you might call it

hypocrisy