Some days

Some days you write just to hear the krikkettykrat of pen on paper. You let go the drive to communicate, to elicit a response, to mean. Some days its just for the pleasure of seeing the letters pop up, come together and define their own form on the blank page.

Some days i smell a riot in my masala-dabba. The moment i open the dabba everyone sits still, holding their breaths, but not before they can scramble back to their places. That's how i catch the cloves tearing into the chilli powder which bleeds on the jeera as mustard seeds try to hide between fenugreek seeds.

Some days it is as though an abyss hides in my doorway. I step out
fall
fall
fall
through a blur and the pine trees outside stand startled as I meekly fumble around.

i let days like these slide off my mind, careful not to let them cling on, careful not to let their gazillion spokes scratch me. Some days one has to write just to hear the clickettyclak of the keyboard.

while it lasts

Is there something more to mehendi than what meets the eye? Are untold tales woven into its intricate patterns? Is it a secret language, a signal, a symbol, a silent reaching out like the quilts made by people escaping slavery? That just sounds too far-fetched.

What is it then about the mehendi that rustles memory, teases emotions and sends a song to your tongue , even whan you know that it cannot last for long? Is it just another way to love this earth and all it holds before everything fades away? All i can be sure of is that while it lasts i'm in love with red red mehendi.

Reading a used book

A quaint smell stretches out its arms from within the pages, the smell of all those hands that had once held the book with so much love.
'arf arf' barks a dog-ear 'here's an enchanting page', and another tugs at you 'this is where my reader drifted into a catnap'.
Nifty creases running all along the yellow pages hint at all the hidden paths in the book.
A pencilled star winks at you from the corner of a page; somebody has been willing to share with you a moment of epiphany.
Tea colored wishy-washy clouds and greasy smudges; clearly words were not the only ones devoured.
And somewhere a lonely soul once sat clutching at this book so hard as though it could steer a way through life, so hard that the book was moved and loosened its binds

...one hasn't even started reading the book.

Deja vu

This afternoon sunlight poured from above, tripped and tumbled over the dancing leaves and a windchime laughed in a distance. You slept through it, your cheek warming my shoulder. I will scoop up the glittering light from the leaves, pluck out the windchime's laughter, squeeze out the scent of pines and press it all together in between the pages of the telephone directory, so that sometime tomorrow we will plop this afternoon into our mouths and savor its wild sweetness. Sometime tomorrow you and i will lie down on the greenest grass and gaze at this afternoon sky, as the light trips and falls over the dancing leaves and the windchime bursts out in glee. We will watch till the blue seeps into us, we will watch till our eyes are quenched, and then you'll turn around and shoot a kick and i'll follow your lead , and the dogwood trees beside us will chuckle and shed a photo. Look mamma, it's us you'll shout, and in the photo you and i will be lying on greenest grass, as leaves danced and light tripped and windchime giggled and scent of pines curled out. I'd be vaguely surprised too.

Either, or

Last week daylillies bllomed in my backyard. Bold orange flowers with brown stamen stood upright on their stems. I was moved. I cut off a branch and placed it in a vase on my coffee table. One large flower and two buds. A moment passed, or perhaps a day or two. Two large flowers and a bud. I stood in awe. I vowed to witness the next miracle, and kept constant watch day and night. And, then there were three large flowers.

Either something so graceful opens up so freely that it is hard for the eye to capture, or something so dazzling bursts out with such violent energy that the eye dare not touch it.
Either way, it's a shame that I cannot witness something so beautiful as the blooming of a daylily.

There’s a word...

... which when set alone grows arms, long outstretched arms inviting you to sink into their warmth. Sink and warmth – the words suggest a yielding softness. Soft it is, even in its enunciation. Lips part and meet for a moment and the word is born.

Hold back.
I suspect its two syllables hold within them a brutal force that can trample all over you, even over that sacred space within you where you are just a being on this universe.

Hold back you cannot for long.
There’s an itch within you too that curls out unseen, and the next time you look at yourself you see that your arms are stretched out, just like the word Mom.

Teacake

A thin golden band around the rim of a gleaming fine bone china tea cup is all it takes to fish out a long forgotten scene, and you see it wholly for the first time, you see it too late. An ember pours out its brilliant gold, and dies instantly, and within you someone stands holding a fistful of ash, hands singed.

Miss Margaret and Miss Grace, the Anglo-Indian sisters I once went for tutions had a tea set like that. A fine bone china set of gleaming white, with a golden band and delicate pastel flowers on a side. Only once did I see them using the set, that evening when the mothers of the tuition girls were invited for tea. Miss Grace made the tea. Miss Margaret sliced the cake brought from the local bakery, and arranged it in neat overlapping circles in two plates, each honey colored crust falling gracefully on the creamy inside. We helped her set the tea cups. “Flowers for our guests,” she said as she went turning each cup so that the flowers faced the chairs. They debated on how to serve the tea, and finally decided that once everyone was seated, Miss Margaret would walk in with the tea pot. White lace table cloth, gleaming tea cups set neatly and the sugar pot in the middle- they stood watching the setting. We watched too, a nameless emotion beating within us. Manju’s mom was the only one to come. We sat around the table, Miss Margaret brought in the tea, Miss Grace passed on the milk and sugar, and I tried not to cough as the tea cake got stuck in my dry throat.

“Are we getting those?” hubby asked. He was getting tired of my touch and buy shopping. “No, not these, let’s look for some contemporary design.” I had moved on.

Yahoo! India Content Theft- Our voices count

I join the protest against yahoo! India's content theft.

Su of Suryagayathri writes, "Yahoo! India plagiarised contents from several blogs when Yahoo! launched their Malayalam portal. The giant corporation hasn't yet owned up to their responsibilitynor did they apologize to the bloggers. When accused, they silently removed the contents. This is not acceptable. We need an apology!" (read more )

Listen to other voices:

Protest against plagiarisation of Yahoo ! യാഹൂവിന്റെ ചോരണമാരണത്തില്‍ പ്രതിഷേധം

Geez!

someone's been stealing pickled gooseberries!