A curated cellar of musings.
The feminine in the divine Divine in the feminine The rebel in the oppressed The Feared within the fear The maternal asserts: Like the puja’s flame—heft in the immaterial, Brilliance in red—powdery Vermilion, bedaubed Omniscient thunder buried in the Holy drum The petty wither— Falsehood dismembered Ignorance convolutes Purged, cleansed, disentangled I stand delivered Delivered…
Left at my doorstep—A Mirror,Wrapped in needless layers of cheap bubble wrap,Sans a sender’s name; smelt of burning embersA script, indecipherable, carved onto its wooden frame(My maid said, “language of the poor, Sir”):It left permanent red marks on anyone who touched it, for the frame was Daubed in a wet Vermilion—never driedI put it up…
He had left the room; but, his echoes prevailed, reflecting and re-reflecting from every bit of live surface. The physical vacancy never felt empty, rather, felt like a celebration of memories. His songs, like my childhood's lingering scent, are inescapable; they are within me and not stored remotely in some static binary form. Each Pallavi…
Ain't it all an assembly of straight lines? The boring roads, Narcissistic walls, even the telling inclines and declines Maths will even have you believe there are a million tangents in a circle Linear, purposeful, but tedious But, look closely my friend Don’t you see the zillion curves in each circle’s tangent? All seemingly…
If to quell were an outlawed act To win a mocked at indulgence To surpass a useless gratification To covet a visible crime “I’ll carpet”, He said, “Your abode with a giving greenery” “I’ll mutate thy existence to a walk on silky sands,” He promised “There’ll be no bad, or good, just the right…
Darkened by light the leaves breathe... These Wet silhouettes— Green and photosynthetic, still But they wait for the night They prefer to be indistinct— Inconspicuous and secure in the unlit
Ah! a vicious, artless short ballI duck under it, at times weave awayI let it go, but I watch it all the way— A desperate bowler's hurled aggravation, limps into the keeper’s hand. All the aggression as harmless as the needless dramaProving a point is not my burdenBut surviving and scoring isTo duck and weave:…
Stains they are aplentyAiry dark patchesLoom and zoom in at randomCrowding the lit, awkwardly Yet, they equip our brightness Light is not light—without its dark cousinShadows tell light’s secrets—the code in all the glamourLight and Shadow a rhythm like no otherKannan
Another August comes by Monsoon pellets dirty green lagoons, Thatched roofs leak, Rainwater plops on hot, reddish-brown Kattan Chaya An organic excess invades the secluded south Goan beaches The horizon is hardly distinct— the sun sets and rises from a mistiness August brings about green, profuse beginnings, Like the rains A month for new roles,…
Squares, they are floating Always in a cozy, crowded group Drifting without a point In a circular sea They’ve no depth, they’re just pieces Bits of flatness Senseless fragments— Their absorptive apparatus, wrecked beyond repair; They yell and bray out shallow nothings, In the language of the visually deaf Kites float in Adorn the air…
Fragile souls, float about, dancing gingerly to a long lost tune.
These photographs of mine are old. Pandemic has distorted the charm of my home town. This slide show is a tribute to its remarkable vigor. The BGM is from the film Charulatha, Charu's theme, composed by Satyajit Ray.
Charred remains of auburn onion: Inviting network of rightly burnt brown. Precisely steamed bits of fluffy rice: A long lost Jasmine courtyard. Restlessly sweating, juicy succulents— Mutton—mingled in spicy nectar. Biryani: A sensory feast in layers. A piece of subcontinent’s accrued humanity
