Thirty

It pours in sheets.
The neighbour children are squealing.
It pours in sheets
that obscure their little dance, when they steal drops forbidden,
for fear of illness,
and consequently missing
a day at school, a test, a rank, an academic title, a career, a salary, marriage, fulfilment.

The windows busy themselves – their banging business.

So many sounds to remind me I miss voices.
and that I tire of my own, sounding in my head – loud, loud. And louder.

Atwood’s landscapes revisited – fallen logs, brambles, kitchen knives.
And feet under chairs traveling
round and round, in circles.

An urge to grab life with both hands,
But for
Malnutrition, fatigue, burnout
and the dreaded demise of patience.

Twenty Nine

I watched him walk from the cigarette shop, talking on the phone – to someone close, I imagine. His gait wasn’t particularly hurried.

He’d respectfully kept his cigarette unlit.

I was telling somebody close about the daal-fry I’d had for lunch.

I waved at him.
He smiled, waved back.

I have no clue who he was.

Twenty Eight

There are French windows at work, overlooking a very busy road.

Day in-day out, people commute along our lines of sight, rarely straying into our visions.
During torrential downpours, they huddle at the unofficial smokers’ lounge.

Today, a morgue van passed.

And then,
there are French windows along a very busy road, overlooking an office.

Twenty Seven

Lately, I’ve been wondering about what writing means to me.
And why I instinctively avoid writing in first person.

As much as it is an honesty issue, I figure it has much to do with dealing with me.
Every time I run from writing, I run from me.

I don’t like saying statements that would make me cringe when I read it the next time around. I don’t like sounding like an indulgent ten year old. And yes, I do not like situations where I have to contest that my mental age is frozen at fourteen.

I feel like writing. Every damned day.
I feel like opening my eyes, absorbing a moment of beauty, and keeping it there. Just as beautiful. So the world can read the same beauty that I’d seen there, then. And it’s always in wondering, if somebody else smiles the way I do, or loses at least one of the senses to a moment.

Do people smile at a cashier counting coupons, her lips and tongue moving soundlessly to English numerals, with Tamilian phonetics? Can deja vu happen by way of smell? Isn’t listening to someone, with your eyes watching their eyes smile, light up, disappear to places you can’t tell, a wonderful thing? Does anyone watch how they absently smile, and let you in on how their faculties are continually fabricating words, gestures, expressions to translate what they’re processing deep inside – letting you in on something so private?

Writing, to me, is what I heard when I was listening.

Writing, to me, is when I pin down zero intent, and pure indulgence into structure, form, prose, poetry, images, visuals. Verbs, adjectives. Values, judgments, grammatical errors, clauses.

Is when I archive everyday, and sew days together with words.


For the bandies and Pappu. I love you more, and more, everyday.
For goo. I love you very much.
For my evil twins, Samurai and Billy, I miss you both.
And for someone who finds me annoying. Thank you, for everything.