Monday, March 23, 2020

Vulnerability ...

Vulnerability is strangely liberating!

Be so vulnerable that
the falling of the flower from its branches makes you sob incoherently!
Be so vulnerable that
the raindrops on your palm make you fall in passionate love!
Be so vulnerable that
the flipflop wings of the butterfly fill your heart with intense joy!
Be so vulnerable that
you don't care to hide how your heart melts with a smile of his
how you remain awake thinking of him
how you seethe in anger at his betrayal
how you forgive him, nevertheless!
Be so vulnerable that
you are not afraid to listen to the whisper of the universe
to create the new you in your imagination
and then again, to lose the creation in your careless whimsicality!

Be vulnerable,
For,
Vulnerability is strangely liberating!



Sunday, March 22, 2020

Home - letter to RuRu

Hi Ruru,

Today I will tell you the story of my home.

Home, for me, was that huge bushy tree standing all alone in that timid field, looking at me, shaking its leaves, welcoming, smiling whenever I would go and stand in my balcony. It kept me company as I sat there staring, writing, reading, sipping coffee, day-dreaming. I tried to google out its name but other than its handsome unruly head, umbrella-like leaves and a thick straight spine I couldn't find anything relevant but then that's my own ignorance about the names of these Indian species. Nevertheless, it remained mine and it remained as my friend, and it remained my home.

On the days it would rain, two small children who kept reminding me of Apu and Durga from Pather Panchali, would take shelter below the tree and then they will start throwing those strange-looking small tamarind like brown fruits to us. Aayu, Neelima and I will be of the same age at that point, busy collecting those fruits and giggling and befriending those children. Someday, when it didn't rain and the heat is mounting on the grey of the field and the tree is stubbornly flaunting its green amongst all those grey, the red-brown greater Coucals couple will keep playing around the babblers and the sparrows will chatter in shrill voice sharing their stories with me. And I would be the happiest soul sharing my space and the same wavelength with the tree.


But like every other good thing as well as a bad thing, this too passed away. One day, quite suddenly, it all ended. The construction on that site started, for another skyrise. Soon, in front of me lay the lonely grey of the field and those broken rocks like a wound that oozed pus. Everyone was gone; the tree, those birds, the Apu-Durga children, all were gone. Aayu left for another country, Neelima for another home. I stayed. trying to collect those broken parts and building the tree in my mind. My home lay in its branches, among the light and shadow mischief of its leaves. Since then I have been wandering to other countries, states, houses, but, till now, I could never build another home!

Sunday, March 1, 2020

poetry ...

When Reading your poems ten different men think that you have written for them, and ten different wives curse you, cooking up a storm in respective homes, you sit back and smile, continuing to weave magic words, stitching a patchwork quilt, wondering how universal the word poetry is!